


Cold Pressing AU: The Foal

by Alex_Quine



Series: Cold Pressing AU [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Mpreg, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/pseuds/Alex_Quine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aragorn asks Arin to name a foal, he sets in motion a series of events that none of them could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold Pressing: The Foal Chapter 1

 

 

The morning light was beginning to seep grey across the courtyard as Boromir ushered the boy into the open door of the stable-block. The groom standing in the archway nodded to him as they passed, stepping softly on straw laid on the cobbled floor to deaden the sound of shod hooves. Boromir tightened his grip slightly on Arin’s shoulder as they came up to the edge of the far loosebox, reminding him of the need for slow, quiet movements. 

From behind the wooden wall came a low whicker and Aragorn’s answering murmur. He turned from the mare standing in the corner and smiled at Boromir, a night of missed sleep showing in the drawn quality around his dark eyes. Then he beckoned Arin forward and the boy came to him edging around the wall of the box, so that the mare could see him approaching and not fear for the new foal, asleep in the straw beside her.

Arin craned his neck to see it, half hidden in the deep bedding, as Aragorn laid an arm around his shoulders and drew him closer. “It’s a filly foal,” he said quietly, “and a good strong one. She’s been on her feet and taken her first milk.” He looked again soft at Boromir, the men sharing their love for this miracle of new life, as the boy let the mare lip at his fingers.

Arin had brought her a carrot and when he held his hand flat, her warm muzzle tickled his skin and the carrot disappeared with a satisfying crunch. In the straw, the foal heard the noise and lifted its head. Arin saw a dark bay head with a small white star at its centre. Boy and foal looked at each other and then the foal slumped back onto the straw and slept. “We’ll leave them be,” Aragorn said, guiding Arin out of the box. Boromir closed and bolted the door behind them. The groom came forward to take up post, sat on a small stool in the passage-way outside the box, and Aragorn clasped the man on the shoulder and smiled as he passed.

In the stable-yard, the first weak gleams of sunlight were chasing along the neatly swept paths, where grooms and lads were hurrying with buckets of water, armfuls of sweet hay.   
“Does she have a name, Sire?” Arin asked.   
“No, Arin, she does not.” 

Boromir reached out to ruffle his son’s hair, saying, “We thought you might like to give her a name.”   
The boy looked at them with serious eyes. “I would need to think about it…but I would like that.”   
“Good,” said Aragorn firmly, hugging Arin to his side, “that’s settled – and now we all need some breakfast before you have to go to school and your Adar and I tackle an especially tedious trade meeting. I think perhaps sausages and mushrooms and potatoes and bacon and eggs and…” he paused for dramatic effect, “anything else I fancy!” Boromir snorted and looked down to hide a wide grin and as the party walked under the archway toward the kitchen block, neither men saw the figure stood in the shadow cast by the well, who paused in drawing up his bucket to watch them go.

At the end of the day Arin had hurried back to the stables to look at the foal again. His friends wanted to see it too, but it was too soon. He would ask the King if they might visit in a few days. This time a different groom was sat on the little stool, a burly man with kind eyes. He had been told not to allow anyone into the loosebox, but he lifted Arin up in strong arms so that he could look through the bars. The mare stood in the corner, pulling steadily at a rack of hay, whilst the foal was on its feet this time, nosing around under its mother. The mare shifted her hindquarters restlessly until the foal settled, finding its place, sucking eagerly at a swollen teat. The groom lowered Arin to the ground. “I suppose I’ll be finding you in here at all hours,” he said good-naturedly. “Is she yours?”

“Oh no. The mare belongs to Adar, to the Lord Steward,” Arin explained hastily. “She went to the King’s horse, Brego, and Adar gave the foal to him. But I get to give it a name.”

“Well that’s an important consideration,” agreed the groom, sitting back down on his stool and picking up a length of twine that he’d been knotting into the beginnings of a net for hay. Arin watched the man work, deftly looping the rough twine and using a small bone hook to pull the long end through the net.

“A man’s name says a good deal about him,” he continued, “and it’s the same for beasts. Give a dog a bad name and he’ll learn to bite, if he didn’t before.” Arin thought about it. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but didn’t want to say so. 

“So have you thought of a name yet?” asked the man, “Have to do it soon, give it a name.”

“Not yet,” said Arin. “I thought I might find a star – because of the star on her face.”

“Well that could be a lucky omen, young master.” The man set his net aside and rested his palms on his knees, looking into the boy’s face. Then he smiled broadly and got up, saying “I’d best be off for the evening meal and you too. Little horse there is getting hers,” and he clapped the boy on the shoulder and ushered him out.

Over the next few days Arin alternated between visiting the stables and poring over the few books of star maps in Boromir’s library. Adar, when consulted, had thought it a fine idea. Brego had come from Rohan, he said, so perhaps Arin might find a star beloved of the Rohirrim? Arin looked up to where Boromir was sat by the fire, legs stretched out, propped on a low stool, one hand turning a book in his lap whilst the other absently drew Rullo’s ears through his fingers. The big dog sighed and leant in to him. 

Rullo could not reconcile himself to the stables’ need for cats to keep down the vermin in the grain stores and Arin had left him at home on his frequent trips to the loosebox. He felt suddenly guilty that he had not hugged the dog enough over the last few days and got up, went to his father, planted himself on the rug at Boromir’s feet and wrapped both arms around Rullo, who responded with a tossed head and a good deal of slobber. Boromir glanced down at him. The boy looked unsettled and even shamefaced. 

“Lad?” Boromir asked. Arin looked determinedly at the mastiff, who tried to lick his face.

“I’ve been neglecting Rullo, because I can’t take him to the stables.”

“Ah.”

“I forgot to brush him this morning.”

“Hmm.”

Hesitantly. “Did you brush him?”

“Mmm.”

“And walk him?”

“Mmm.”

“When I find a name for the foal then I won’t need to go so much.”

“Oh.”

Arin looked up, frowning at Boromir. “Adar, you’ve gone all _ent_ again.”

“Ent?”

“You know – one word answers – very slow.”

“Oh.”

“Adar!”

Between them, Rullo pricked up his ears. Arin was almost giggling now.

“King Elessar hates it,” he said firmly, as though that clinched the matter.

“Oh?”

“Adar!”

“Yes, sometimes the King hates it,” murmured Aragorn stepping out of the shadow of the doorway. Rullo whined and thumped his tail on the floor, but he did not stir from the boy’s embrace as Aragorn came towards them. 

Boromir surged up out of his chair and hoisted Arin off the floor to make his bow. “Your pardon, Lord Steward,” Aragorn laid his hand gently on Arin’s head, who smiled shyly up at him. “A late visit I know and unannounced.”

“This house welcomes you at whatever hour, Sire.” Boromir’s smile was warm. 

Aragorn gazed into the child’s eyes. “So have you a name for her yet?”

“I’m still thinking – but I’ve got an idea.”

“It’s a good one,” said Boromir, wrapping one of Arin’s dark curls around his finger as he stood beside him, “but it’s time you were a-bed, lad.”

As the library door closed behind the boy and his dog, the men turned back to one another and Boromir opened his arms for his King to walk into them. Aragorn breathed deeply, resting his head on Boromir’s shoulder, taking in his scent, letting Boromir’s hands gentle down his back, smoothing away the cares of the day.

At last he tightened his own hold around the blonde man’s waist and leaned back to look at him with laughter in his eyes. “Greetings Ent,” he said happily. “Hmph,” muttered Boromir, leaning in for a gently nipping kiss and then his eyelids fluttered and he groaned long and low as Aragorn stroked the length hardening under his breeches with strong, mobile fingers. 

“And your one word…said slowly,” murmured Aragorn, dragging his own swollen cock along Boromir’s hip and gasping at the sensation. “What will it be? Please? Or, Yes? Or, More?”

“Now,” growled Boromir and he clasped Aragorn’s face between his hands to take his mouth in a kiss that left both men breathless. Then Boromir wrapped his arms around his love, hugged him fiercely and lowered him to lie on the rug before the fire. By the time he turned back from barring the door Aragorn had shed his outer tunic and was loosening the ties of his shirt. As Boromir knelt beside him, catching Aragorn’s hands in his own to still them, kissing the fingertips one by one, pressing his lips into the palms, his King watched him entranced, until he drew Boromir once more to him in the golden firelight, whispering, “Please…yes…more.”

At the end of the week Arin took his school-friends to see the foal, now wearing a tiny halter of soft leather. The burly groom, Doran, held the mare whilst the boys, one-by-one, ventured into the box. They were allowed to give the mare a treat and to stroke the foal slowly if it came within reach. As the last was leaving the soft voice of the Queen was heard at the stable-door. The boys hastily lined up in the passageway and bowed as Arwen passed hand-in-hand with Eldarion. The toddler stood at the open door of the box and waved a carrot in one chubby hand. 

Arwen lifted the hem of her gown against the deep straw and stepped forward to stroke the mare, who lowered her head to the Evenstar and whickered. Arwen looked around and beckoned Arin, saying “Bring Eldarion with you. She trusts your judgement.” Arin’s eyes widened slightly, but he clasped the child’s hand and led him towards the mare, who took the whole gift, carrot, hand and all, into her mouth then gently disentangled the little fingers and let them go. Eldarion was already looking up at the foal, a little taller than himself and reached out to stroke it, but it backed away. The child’s face fell but Arwen took his fist and rubbed it against Arin’s shirt. She smiled encouragingly at her son who reached out again and the foal nosed at him and then stepped close enough for both Arin and Eldarion to stroke the warm hide. Arin placed his hand loosely over Eldarion’s to teach him how to stroke slowly and in the direction the hair lay.

As they petted the foal Arwen thanked the groom, but hesitated a little, as though thinking of something else. Just then Eldarion piped up with a flow of words, many of which were quite intelligible and Arwen nodded wisely, collected her son and took him from the loosebox, smiling to the boys as she passed.

For a few days after that Arin often met Eldarion hand-in-hand with one of the Queen’s ladies, waiting in the stableyard for Arin to take him to see the foal. Arin could see the child becoming bolder, but he was somehow glad that Eldarion would not go into the box without him. 

Arin wondered if King Elessar would give his son the foal. He did not mind really. The foal would have the best of care all its days. It was the King’s to do with as he pleased. Adar had given it to him. Anyway, Eldarion might someday have the foal, but it would carry Arin’s name. It was unlucky to change a horse’s name. Now if he could just find the right one! 

Heavy rain had been falling for hours, drowning the whole city in a thick grey blanket of sodden clothing, leaking footwear. There was water sheeting down the roofs and tumbling into the gutters that overflowed across paved courts and pathways, so that any souls bold enough to venture out hefted the hoods of their cloaks over their heads and ran, anonymous shapeless figures, from one doorway to another.

Arin scuttled into the entrance of the stableblock and shook drops of water from his hair. He had come to a decision, but before he told Adar and the King, he had to see if the mare and foal liked the name. You had to face the horse and ask its permission. The foaling box was at the end of the line, in the quietest spot, and although a couple of lamps had been lit in the corridor against the gloom of the day, the box was wreathed in shadows. 

Arin jumped slightly when Doran appeared, rising from the little stool to tower above him. “Didn’t think I’d see you today, young master.” His voice was somehow different, rougher, and Arin realised that the man had been drinking. The boy shifted from foot-to-foot, half decided to retreat. There was something about the man’s eyes, glittering down at him, that made his breath come quickly. 

“Come to see the little one have you?” and the groom swung wide the door of the box. The mare threw up her head at this sudden movement, but snuffled a greeting when she saw Arin. Doran bowed and waved him forward with exaggerated courtesy that unsettled the boy, but he’d come this far, so he decided to visit the horses and then not to linger. He’d go home quickly. Whether he’d tell he was unsure. The Head Groom would dismiss Doran, likely beat him too, if he knew of it. The man had seemed good with horses, but a drunkard around stables, filled with straw and hay and lit with oil lamps, was a danger to all.

Arin stepped towards the mare and foal. This time he had filled his pockets with peppermint drops and as the mare and foal nosed at his cloak, trying to find the treats beneath, Arin reached forward and stroked the foal. “There is a word in Rohirric,” he said softly, “that means ‘starry.’ It’s ‘astyrred.’ What do you think? Would you like to be called Astred?”

“Sounds like a good name,” came a voice from the corridor and Arin turned to see another groom, in the doorway. This man was thin and sharp-featured and it struck Arin that Doran simply stood, slack-mouthed, holding the door and did not look at the newcomer at all. The boy could not explain why this man made him nervous, but he knew that he wanted to go home…now. He had only to pass them and then he would run. He did not care if they thought him a baby.

Arin had taken the first steps away from the mare, when sudden merry laughter in the doorway announced the hurried, rain-soaked arrival of a lady-in-waiting with Eldarion. Arin looked sharply at Doran, but the man did not move. The lady had taken the child on her hip to keep his shoes dry and she swung him down to the floor, fussing over the little prince, taking off his cloak, then shooing him towards the open loosebox, a large carrot in his hand.

“Awin! Cawot! Got a cawot!” piped the toddler. As Eldarion stumbled through the deep straw towards him, Arin’s eyes met the lady’s in panic and she stilled a moment, then looked questioningly at the grooms. Before she could open her mouth, the thin man had grabbed her around the waist and clamped a hand over her mouth. Nevertheless she struggled and kicked. “Get the boy, fool!” hissed the thin man and Doran lurched forward into the box. Just then the lady began to struggle free and the groom cursed, a dagger flashed and blood spurted through the bars of the loosebox as he cut her throat. 

Arin saw the terror in her eyes as she sank to the ground, clutching at her ruined throat and he grabbed at Eldarion, pulling him behind him, shouting “Dari, hide! Hide!” Doran grabbed him by the arms and Arin began kicking and went to scream, but a rough cloth was stuffed into his mouth and he began to gag. He was lifted off the ground and shaken until his head hurt and he could struggle no longer. Doran’s bared teeth pressed against his cheek. Arin could smell the spirits on his breath. “Let’s see how much the Lord Steward misses his brat,” he hissed.

The other man was intent on taking Eldarion, but the child was pressed into the corner of the box, along with the frightened foal and the mare was now stood between the groom and the child. The blood spreading in stinking runnels across the cobbled floor had frightened her and she was ready, ears laid back and teeth bared, to defend her foal against all comers.

“Leave him! Leave him! Would you have Elessar and the elf-witch hunt you? This is the one we want! Help me with him.” Doran seemed to have roused from his stupor and was snapping at the thin man as he went to roll Arin in a cloak, binding him tight with sharp twine that cut into the child’s flesh. Arin was gasping, trying not to be sick at the intrusive gag. “Close the box door. We don’t want the mare getting out. The longer it takes for anyone to know aught’s amiss, the better!”

 In the courtyard the rain fell in sheets and anyone looking, would have seen a groom with a sack over his shoulder, pause in the doorway, pull his hood over his face and jog across the yard, out through the archway and disappear into the gloom. A few moments later, another figure left, carefully closing the stable door and followed the first man away into the mirk. But there was none to see.

 

 


	2. Cold Pressing: The Foal Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Aragorn asks Arin to name a foal, he sets in motion a series of events that none of them could have imagined.

It was a stable-lad, tasked with relieving Doran an hour later, who found the cooling body of the lady and heard the whimpering coming from the loosebox. The mare would not let him by, so he’d run for his master who had taken one look at the horror and sent him careering up the steps towards the palace.

Back in the stable the Head Groom had called for more light and spoken soft to the horse, whose eyes rolled at him, her front feet stamping impatiently in the straw. He did not dare speak to the child, for fear that the boy would try to move towards him and perhaps get between the mare and foal. The rain had slackened off to a relentless drizzle. Men arrived, splashing through the mud, with lanterns which they hung on every available hook, lighting up the little corridor, so that all could see the limp, white, figure slumped awkwardly on the floor.  

Running steps in the yard brought the Lord Boromir skidding to a halt by the door and behind him the King, who took a swift look at the body before him and then stepped past it to the half door of the loosebox. He began to talk to the mare, low and soft, almost singsong, in Elvish the Head Groom thought, and the horse gradually began to slow her head tossing, and the shivering across her skin died away. Watching from the corridor, Boromir pointed wordlessly at the fallen lady, gesturing that she should be covered up, before he drifted forward and into the mare’s line of sight. When her head came up, Boromir murmured “Whoa, lass. You know me. Easy, lass.” Behind him, a groom was hastily laying down horse blankets to hide the corpse. 

“Will you get the boy?” Aragorn asked Boromir, his gentle tone never varying as he unlatched the half-door and walked into the loosebox to stand beside the horse and run his hands in tiny circles up and around the mare’s ears. With a gusty sigh, her head sank to his hands and Boromir stepped softly across the straw and scooped Eldarion out from his nest in the far corner, letting the child cling, arms and legs wound around him and his face pressed into Boromir’s neck, as much to smother any sound that might startle the mare, as to comfort him.  

As he stepped out into the passageway, a flutter of silks announced Arwen’s arrival and they faced one another across the body of her erstwhile lady. Boromir passed the whimpering child to his mother who cradled him in her arms and turned away taking Eldarion out into the yard, standing in the drizzle, swaying from side-to-side and whispering in his ear.

In the box, Aragorn was still crooning to the horse, tracing little figures on the mare’s neck. At last he laid one hand flat on her face and backed away from her to the door, which Boromir opened quietly and then closed and bolted behind him. Silent, they went to the shrouded form. Boromir bent down and lifted the corner of the blanket that covered the woman’s face. Her mouth gaped as though still struggling for the last breath that would never come and her eyelids were half open. Boromir bent and closed her eyes with a gentle hand. 

Aragorn beckoned to the Head Groom, who was grim-faced, now that the shock had settled in, but still resolute and in command of his charge. The lady would be carried to the Houses of Healing and the blood sluiced away thoroughly, strong soap dissolved in the water used to scrub the cobbled floor, the walls, everywhere befouled by the gore. If the smell could not be got out, the floor must be lifted, the earth thrown away and the stones washed before it was re-laid, otherwise horses would baulk at the spot.

Boromir was half-listening to them, looking closely at the wound and as he rose to speak further to Aragorn his gaze caught that of Arwen, who still stood in the midst of the yard. She had put Eldarion down, even as he tugged at her skirts, and pressed him back into the arms of his hovering nursemaid. Then she came to them, the hem of her skirts dark with rainwater, and looked up at the men with pale cheeks on which a tear ran. “The men who did this,” she said faintly, “they took Arin.”

No sound came from either man. It seemed as though they were turned to stone, staring at her, but Arwen wrapped an arm around each, shielding from the gaze of the curious, hands that clutched convulsively at one another. Boromir spoke first and Arwen thought her heart would break at the rough care in his voice, as he asked if Eldarion were unharmed. Aragorn’s forehead had dropped to lie against her hair as she assured them that the child was frightened, but he would do very well. He was sure that the ‘fat groom’ had taken Arin and she hoped to get more from him once the anxiety had faded. She must take him in now, give him a bath and something to eat and she thought they had all best be out of the rain. She would come to them in the Steward’s rooms when she had news and someone must needs tell Beregond. The murdered girl had been his niece, not long in Arwen’s service, but valued for her kind heart and willing ways.

Aragorn raised his head and beckoned across the Head Groom to send a sensible man to locate the Captain, wherever he might be, whilst Boromir waved over a stable-lad and tasked him with speaking to the guards at each city level, in the vain hope that they might have seen the boy or the groom, quickly identified as the missing Doran. Aragorn ordered that riders be sent to Ithilien and to alert garrison posts on the major routes out of the city. 

The nursemaid had taken Eldarion by the hand and led him away. Aragorn walked from the yard hand-in-hand with Arwen, and Boromir followed along behind them, although his feet felt so heavy, he could barely place one step after another on ground that seemed to shift beneath him. Once or twice he had to remind himself to breathe, so great was the effort to force air into his chest that felt as though crushed like an eggshell trodden underfoot.

Before the Steward’s study door, Aragorn kissed Arwen lightly on the cheek and as they watched her pass along the colonnade, ordered that no-one be admitted. Once inside he turned to Boromir and would have taken the man into his arms, but that Boromir jerked away from him to pace the room for a few angry strides, then pulling-up short, looked at him with eyes in which Aragorn could see furious calculation.

“Why?” Boromir’s voice was hoarse.

“And who?” added Aragorn dryly.

He went to a side table and poured them both a cup of wine, but Boromir shook his head at the proffered beaker and resumed his pacing, as though he must be moving. 

Aragorn watched his lover gravely. Was he readying himself for action, warming muscles made stiff by too many hours behind a desk? Was he propelled forward into aimless motion by the self-same pain that gripped at Aragorn’s chest, or driving an unwilling body onward for fear that if he stood still he would sink? Aragorn knew that at this moment it was only the table he leant against that held him upright. He took a deep breath and spoke.

“They could have taken Arin in error, or to silence him, or for money, or for revenge, or for some purpose we do not understand.”

Boromir paused in his march and seemed to consider each proposition, eyes lowered to a booted foot that tapped rapidly on the flagged floor. He shook his head.

“In error? And what will they do when they discover their error? To silence him? We’ve seen how they silence unwanted witnesses, no need to take him away and anyway, what could the boy have seen? For money?” He looked up with a snarl on his lips, “If gold is their lure, they must needs contact us and keep the child safe betimes.”

“For revenge?” Aragorn spoke quietly, not wanting to stoke Boromir’s cold rage. “Are there any who hate you enough to do this?”

Boromir stilled for a moment. “I cannot think…there are orc who do not love me and perhaps some Harad or Corsair tribes who’d wish me ill.”

His voice grew bitter and more distant, as though he looked back reluctantly to a time of trial, “and there may be some who have cause to remember my family’s stewardship with little joy. My father’s madness touched all towards the end, but why wait so long? I cannot believe…”

A gentle knocking broke into their musing, but before they could think to reply, the door had cracked open and Arwen slipped in carrying a small roll of canvas, from which she produced soft leather shoes for both men and gestured to them to take off their boots.

“My dear?” Aragorn’s voice was puzzled.

“Beregond is stood, waiting in the corridor to see you and you’re covered with poor Meriel’s blood.”

Having seen them tidy and hidden the evidence behind a trunk, Arwen would have left, but Aragorn caught her by the hand and drew her back to where Boromir was setting a high-backed chair for her. As she sat and smoothed out her skirts, Aragorn took up station by her side and Boromir went to usher in Beregond, who looked dazed.

The wars were just far enough in the past that men had begun to breathe easier, to expect life to go as smoothly as in the tales their forefathers had told; sudden death, if it came, to be as the result of a fever, childbirth, an unlucky fall from a horse. Casual brutality caught even old soldiers unawares and he had accounted his niece lucky to be chosen to serve the Queen. Now he could not think what he would tell his sister.

He would not sit, nor take wine, but listened gravely as the King promised that Gondor would put forth its best endeavours to find the maiden’s killers. Arwen spoke to him warmly of the girl who had so charmed all who met her, that Prince Eldarion found in her a lively playmate and the Queen’s women welcomed her as a friend. He must tell his sister that she would be mourned and remembered fondly. 

Boromir would have added his condolences to theirs, but Beregond looked sorrowfully at his old friend and said, bleakly, “Is it true? Have they taken the boy?” Boromir met his gaze but could not speak, only nodding briefly. “Then there are two accounts to settle,” said Beregond and eventually consented to be escorted down to the Houses of Healing by the Queen herself, to see all was done well for the girl and to arrange her last journey homeward.

As they left, Aragorn pressed Boromir, who looked drained, into Arwen’s empty chair, gently but firmly and placed a cup of water in his hands, before drawing up a stool and sitting beside him, his head laid on Boromir’s shoulder, where Boromir wrapped an arm around him, and twined one dark curl of his hair around his fingers. 

When Arwen returned they listened as she told what she had been able to glean from Eldarion. He thought there were two men, the fat one, and a thin one who picked up Meriel and she wriggled. Eldarion was adamant that they had stolen Arin because he was ‘the Lord Steward’s brat’ and they didn’t want him. Arin told him to hide, so he hid with the foal, but he dropped his carrot in the straw and the mare wouldn’t let him by and the thin man might come back and… At that point Arwen had exerted her best efforts and put him to sleep. It was hoped that in a few days he would remember very little of the matter.

As they were examining the child’s account, the stable lad sent down through the lower levels returned with news, although not of a comforting sort. The heavy rain had made some of the guards’ less vigilant perhaps than usual, but one who knew Doran slightly had seen him go down through the fifth level gate in company with another figure, both of them booted and cloaked for travelling and Doran had a large sack over his shoulder. The guards on the main city gate did not remember any such pair a-foot, but grooms on horseback, leading a couple of pack animals, had left two hours since, claiming to be bound for Harlond. 

“They could take ship from there,” said Boromir faintly.

“If they are truly headed that way,” said Aragorn grimly and despatched a sergeant and a couple of men to the port with all haste.

The Head Groom, when questioned, had little to tell about Doran. He had been in place for a few weeks; a good man with horses, who had done his work quickly and well and had stood his round with the others in the inns but, when it came to it, had given away little about himself, even in his cups. He had been introduced into the household by a minor palace official, who trembled as he recounted how the man had come to him, delivering a horse purchased from a reputable dealer. He seemed good at his job and carried a letter of recommendation from a noble family in Ithilien, but the official’s salary did not stretch to employing stable staff, so Doran had asked whether there were places to be had in the royal stables and the Head Groom had welcomed him, with seeming proofs of his good character from trusted sources. Below his breath, Boromir cursed and resolved to overhaul the means by which the palace got its servants. Aragorn ordered the official to make a full disclosure of all he knew to a captain of the guard, who would then set out to track down the horse dealer.

The stable-lad, who was sharp-eyed, gave it as his opinion that the man calling himself Doran had known Minas Tirith well at one time. He had once been sent with an urgent message, thought himself unobserved and had used a short-cut through back-alleys. The other ‘thin’ man, Meriel’s assailant, was unknown to him, none was gone from his post and it seemed likely that he had got into the stables unobserved, during the rainstorm. Approving his shrewd judgement, honed on the streets, they sent the stable-lad off on another quest, to find out, without making too much noise about it, where their horses had been stabled and what was known of them there. 

When all had been despatched to their tasks, at last the men stood alone again. Arwen had risen, saying that she must needs check on Eldarion and that, a soft hand touched Aragorn’s cheek and was caught up to his lips, she would expect regular reports. As Boromir bent over her hands in tribute, Arwen squeezed his fingers gently.

“He has a stout heart, my lord,” she said firmly, then, smiling at both men. “He is his fathers’ son.”

At her going, Boromir looked to his King and saw in that man’s eyes, love and resolve. Many had spoken with Boromir these last few hours of their fond hopes for Arin’s safe return, their sympathies reaching out to this man who raised his child alone and carried such responsibilities to the state on his shoulders as well. None had spared more than a respectful glance for the King, grave and courteous to all, but Boromir could see how it pained Aragorn that he had to hide his heart in this. What he did not understand was Aragorn’s deep sorrow that he could not comfort his lover, who had laboured in pain to give them both a gift beyond price and now had been wrenched from the child of his body…and what of Arin, thought Aragorn? His fathers’ son, the Evenstar had said - his fathers’ son.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Arin stood on the rickety stool and stretched as tall as he could to hook his hands over the sill. He could get half of his fingers onto the cold stone and had taken off his shoes to try to get a purchase with his toes on the rough cast of the wall. His arms ached from the stretch. The sill was too wide for him to get an easy grip on the bars of the window, but if he could hoist himself up a little with his feet… The boy’s toes scrabbled for a foothold on the wall. He pushed himself up, made a grab and then sharp pain lanced through a finger and he fell back, the stool went over and he was on the floor, landing heavily, gasping and crying out, sucking at the fingertip which bled freely. 

The door to the little room was wrenched open and Doran’s red, sweating face poked through. “Found the glass, have you? Put in special for you, little master.” He grinned and for a moment the boy thought he would come right into the room. Arin kept very still, and looked down. The door closed again with a bang and Arin heard the heavy bar fall on the other side. The taste and smell of his own blood was making him sick and for a moment his mouth twisted with a knotted pain in his chest that could have brought him to real tears, but he would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry. Adar would not cry. 

He scooted over to the wall, which was at least dry and sat with his back against it, slipped a peppermint out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth along-with his finger. That made five sweets he had left. It did not seem a lot and he needed to save them if he was to escape, but at this moment he had decided that he needed something of home. He thought of the box of sweetmeats in his father’s study that he had raided earlier that day. It seemed a very long time ago. He did not think about the stable. There was something dark there that he would not bring into the light.

He remembered, with a shiver, feeling as though he would suffocate; the gag in his mouth, wrapped in the cloak, the twine binding his wrists and ankles stinging as it cut into his skin and then upside down, bumping along, the smell of the packhorse’s hide strong in his nostrils. Once clear of the city, in deserted country, they had replaced the balled-up cloth gag with a bandage strip that muffled most of his cries and let him breath more easily. Arin had tried to struggle, but truth-to-tell was too giddy to do much other than give the thin man cause to laugh at his flailing. Doran had said nothing but looked grim.

Then they had moved on again, for what seemed like hours. When at last the horses had come to a stop and the bundle was loosed from the pack-harness, his head was uncovered. It was night, and with the sudden rush of cold air to his lungs Arin was too dazed to see clearly. He was carried in through a low door, to a room lit by smoky lamps and the red glow of a turf fire, and set down on the floor. The thin man drew his knife to cut the cords around his wrappings and Arin cried out wordlessly, his eyes wide with fear. Doran elbowed the thin man out of the way, called him a fool and cut the bindings, rubbing his ankles and wrists roughly to set the blood flowing again. Arin whimpered at his touch but crawled closer to the fire-basket, craving its warmth.

It was as the heat from the glowing turf seeped into his body that Arin became aware of feet in worn leather slippers, poking out from beneath a rubbed velvet gown. Looking up, his gaze was caught by a pair of red-rimmed eyes in a grey, drawn, face that stared, unblinking, at him. He drew away and turned back to the fire, but a hoarse whisper in his ear and a bony hand that clutched painfully tight on his shoulder, compelled him to turn back to the man, who leant forward in his high-backed chair to peer in his face. His voice creaked like an old door. 

“This is the child?”

“Yes,” answered Doran, shortly. 

He was pouring himself a mug of ale from a great flagon set by the fire, hesitated and then reached down a horn beaker from a shelf and poured in a little of the liquid and handed it to the boy. Arin gulped at it and held up the empty beaker again to Doran who poured in some more, but laid two warning fingers on Arin’s hand and said “Sip it. You’ll be sick else and there’s no change of shirt here for you.”

The old man shifted restlessly in his seat and leant forward to him again, complaining,

“He does not look like…perhaps…I do not remember…who is your father, boy?” 

When Arin did not answer quickly enough for his liking, a thin hand shot out and dashed the beaker from his grasp towards the brazier, where the ale hissed and frothed on the hot turves. Arin glanced at Doran, but the younger man was staring into his mug and said nothing. The boy’s voice was raw with exhaustion when he replied quietly,

“My Adar is Lord Boromir, King Elessar’s Steward.”

“Adar!  Elvish pap! The old man would never have allowed it. Pah!” and he shrugged himself further into the tattered collar of the gown, settling like a carrion bird, in the half-light.

From the shadows beyond the glow of the fire, the thin man stirred impatiently.

“So when do we send word?”

“We’ll let them stew this night and you’ll take word back tomorrow.” The old man shook a bony finger at the shadowed figure. “You’re sure you have a safe way in to the city! I’ll skin you myself if you are followed back here.”

A cough and a gob of spit flying past Arin’s head to hiss on the fire was the only reply, but the old man took it for affirmation. He leant down to Arin again.

“Can you write, boy?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. You’ll write to the Lord Boromir for us.”

He bent down and grasped Arin’s wrist, drawing him, stumbling forward on his knees, to his side. His sour breath scoured Arin’s nostrils and he would have gagged but the old man as quickly flung the boy from him, convulsed in a fit of coughing. 

As he wheezed and weakly thumped his chest, Doran picked Arin up under his arms and stood him beside a table on which lay a ragged scrap of parchment, pen, ink and sand. He had written what they dictated: a few words but heavy with import. It was a great sum in gold and although Arin thought Adar probably could get it, he could not imagine what it looked like.

When he had done, the old man waved him across and took the letter from him, doubtless to be satisfied that Arin had written it as told.    The thin man came out of the shadows to look over his shoulder.

“Will they know that for the child’s hand? We should send something as proof that we have him – something to make them think.” The old man mumbled his assent and stared at Arin. 

“Perhaps,” added the thin man, “we should send a finger – a little finger.” When he saw Arin’s eyes grow dark, he added kindly, “oh, not your writing hand, little master. We’ll want that in case your Adar needs more persuasion.” 

With a snort Doran elbowed him aside and caught the boy up in his arms. The old man seemed sunk in a stupor and did not look at him again as Doran carried Arin into a little room, set him down on a cot bed and left him, in the dark.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

They had barely exchanged two words but, when exhaustion forced them to rest, had fed eachother, a simple meal of broth, oatcake and cheese, with gentle determination, then lain skin-to-skin, entwined in eachother’s arms, had, every-so-often clung together, taking more than heat from eachother against the chill. Somewhere in the watches of the night both had slept, but never together. One was always awake and listening to their love’s breathing, offering prayers to the Valar for their child. Boromir’s had been the eyes to see the sun rise, his body cradling Aragorn. As he lifted his head to sniff the morning air, gauge the likelihood of more rain, Rullo, laid on the rug before the burnt-out fire, stirred and looked to his master.  

He had not wanted to startle Aragorn in waking, so laid his lips soft against his temples, his eyelids and then his mouth, by which time Aragorn was stretching and turning to plant a kiss on Boromir’s shoulder, looked deep into his eyes and silent pledged his love anew. They rose quietly, made ready for the day with hardly a word and walked from the House of the Stewards before any were abroad on the street to see them pass.

Through the morning they received reports, made enquiry in sundry quarters and waited. The sergeant sent to Harlond reported that it was most unlikely the men had taken ship whilst the canny stable-lad had found the spot where they had stabled their horses, a rough shed in an obscure corner of the first level. The nearby tavern had seen a stranger over the last couple of days, a sharp-faced man who’d not endeared himself to the hostess with a tight purse and too free hands. But there was no more to be known of him there. 

The Captain gone in search of the horse dealer was not yet returned, but a weary messenger who’d ridden through the night from Ithilien, brought Eowyn’s distress and Faramir’s assurance of his best men watching the borders. And they waited, attended to other business, for Gondor would not wait on their personal pleasure.

At the noon meal, they had eaten in the dining hall with the household. The mood was subdued and Beregond was missing, but both King and Steward had taken care to speak of other things to as many amongst the company as they might. There was a party from Arnor arrived that morning and come unawares into this palace, where an air of gloom almost dripped from the tapestries, who must be welcomed, provided for. 

At last, the sun was beginning to set on this longest of days and they were once more in Boromir’s study when a guard brought them a small canvas bag that had been handed in to the main city gate by a child. A strip of cloth tied around the neck bore a label ‘for the Steward.’ The child had it, and a silver penny, from ‘a man.’

As the guard left, Aragorn turned it over in his hands. Rullo was on his feet, nosing at the bag and whining. Boromir tried to untie the cloth strip, fumbled it and turned away cursing under his breath, pushing past the dog. With patience Aragorn worked the bindings free and from the bag took a grubby rolled parchment, which he handed, wordlessly, to Boromir.

Boromir unfolded the note. “It’s the lad’s hand, I know it,” he said hoarsely. Then he read the note aloud: the demand for gold, the veiled threat. He turned to Aragorn who still clasped the bag.

“What else does it hold?”

“It’s hair.” Boromir snorted and paced the floor stoking his rage.

“They know little of Boromir of Gondor if they think such bully tactics will work, but I swear, Aragorn, I will beggar my ancient house and go in rags if it will bring him back...” And at that Boromir raised drowned eyes to his love’s face and in a moment Aragorn had him clasped to his chest, shaking. Through his pain Boromir was dimly aware that the face that rested against his was wet with tears.

It was standing thus that Arwen found them some minutes later and cried out in alarm, so that they broke apart to reassure her. Boromir showed her the note, saying grimly, “And they’ve sent us a lock of his hair.”

“No,” murmured Aragorn sadly. Boromir turned to him bewildered.

“You said…”

Aragorn plunged his hands into the bag and brought out a mass of dark curls that spilled over so that one or two escaped and floated downwards.

With a choking cry Boromir fell to his knees to gather up the fallen curls. Aragorn knelt with him and as the two men bent their heads together, whispering oaths of love and revenge, the like of which the stones around them had not heard in an age, the great dog lifted his head and howled.

 

 


	3. Cold Pressing: The Foal

He was cold by morning, despite the blanket that Doran had tossed to him as he’d locked Arin in the night before. His arms were wrapped tight around him, dragging the rough wool as close to his body as he could manage. He had lain down on the cot with its straw-filled mattress with all his clothes on, even his shoes, but still he felt cold. It got better if he ducked his newly shorn head under the edge of the cover, but he didn’t like putting the material over his face. It was hard to breath and a little frightening. 

Arin rubbed his fingers together and brought his hands out from beneath the blanket for a moment to cup his hands over his ears. The short uneven tufts of hair around the tips felt odd. When Doran had fetched him from his room for a moment Arin thought that they might try to take a finger off and he’d clenched his hands behind his back, but they had only cut his hair. He had stood as still as he could whilst Doran took a knife to his head. The thin man had stood behind Doran and made faces, trying to make him wince into the blade, until Doran sent him away, grumbling, to see to the horses.

The old man in the chair had looked at him unblinking and whilst Doran gathered the hair and stuffed it into a small bag, he took an apple from a dish at his elbow and beckoned Arin forward. The boy didn’t want to go closer to the old man, but he was hungry. As Arin reached for the apple, the old man grasped his wrist.

“Who was your mother?”

He could not have been asked a more unexpected question and gaped at his interrogator.

“Her name, boy.”

Arin winced as the grip tightened around the cuts made by the twine that had bound him.

“I do not know. Adar does not speak of my mother.”

“Adar! Call him by his title. You show no respect child.”

There was spittle flecked around the old man’s mouth and his wrinkled neck and cheeks were flushing darkly. Arin set his jaw.

“My father, Lord Boromir, the King’s Steward, is content to be my Adar and I obey him.”

Behind him, Doran gave a short bark of laughter. 

The old man released his wrist and pointed to a small stool. When Arin sat down, Doran laid a plate with a slice of buttered bread and a hunk of cheese beside him on the floor and reached down the horn beaker, which he filled with ale again.

Arin took a mouthful of the bread and chewed hurriedly. Beside him the seated figure was slumped on the arm of the chair, whilst his hand trembled as he held out a mug for Doran to fill. Once the vessel was brimming, he shook so that the liquid spilt down the sides and splashed on the floor. Doran leant forward to guide the old man’s knarled hand down, who finally clasped the mug in both hands and drank deeply.

Arin gulped at his ale and took alternate bites of the apple and the hard cheese.

“Eat slowly, child,” the old man was muttering into his mug, “he hasn’t called for you yet.” Then he looked again at Arin.

“Your grandfather will have you taught some manners.”

Arin’s jaws stilled. Then he swallowed and said quietly.

“Did you know my grandfather?” But it was as though the old man had not heard the small voice.

“You are not fit for the Steward’s House, a rough, unkempt thing,” his gaze fell on the boy, “and dark. Where is the red-gold of the Stewards? Where is our shining one? The mother must have been dark, but not a lady, we would have known of her – a serving wench or one of his whores – and he dare not name her - not worthy, my lord.”

The old man had not looked to him again and Arin had sat as still as possible. When he was done eating, Doran had taken him out into the darkened yard, a firm hand gripped on his collar, so that the boy might not run, and to a small and stinking latrine and thence to the trough to wash his hands and face. Then he had marched Arin back to his little room, thrown the blanket at him and closed the door.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Although the hour was late, the King had drawn his councillors around him, and summoned scribes to prepare copies of his words to go to all parts of Gondor, as far as the borders of Rohan, to be cried in every marketplace, posted at every crossroads, stamped with the King’s seal. With a grave countenance and a tone that brooked no argument, Elessar made plain his decree. 

_Threats had been made to the safety of the Prince Eldarion and to other children of the household. If any harm should come to a child the lives of the perpetrators were forfeit. If any could guide the King’s men to those responsible they would be well rewarded. If any were found to have harboured them, they would be banished to the third generation, their livestock confiscated, their dwellings cast down, no one stone to remain upon another and their fields sown with salt._

A shocked silence greeted their King’s words. This was Elessar more ruthless than any had seen him in time of peace, but the scribes scurried away, notes in hand, to begin their work and the Captain of the guard, tasked with despatching riders across Gondor followed, calculating where he might obtain additional mounts to enable the writ to be carried as widely and as swiftly as possible.

Aragorn left the chamber, his Steward at his shoulder, with a certain grim satisfaction. The case of the murdered lady was in hand, but he was framing what had happened to Arin within the wider potential threat to the royal family and their dependents. Arin was not named, but those holding him and those who knew them, would not mistake the message. The wrath of the King was upon them.

In the corridor before the Steward’s study, they found the soldier sent in search of the horse dealer who had employed Doran, stood, beating his gloves against his leg and waiting impatiently to deliver his report. In a few succinct words, he told how he had tracked down the dealer through the bill of sale to a hamlet some half-day’s ride to the east, and of his suspicions of the man, who seemed ill-at-ease. Boromir ushered them into his study and they went over the officer’s tale at more length.

“Many are made uneasy by a visit from soldiers,” cautioned Aragorn, keen to ensure that they did conjure up the answers they sought out of fear for Arin’s safety. 

“True, Sire,” replied the young man, “but our horse-master was content with his tale, that Doran had come to him with papers from Ithilien but found the place too quiet after a city to stay, until I let him know of the lady’s murder. An honest man would have been curious, perhaps shaken his head at the waste of a life, but this man’s hand shook on my bridle rein and he could not wait to see me off the place.” The officer snorted in disgust. “I left a couple of good men watching from a distance.”

Boromir had been listening to the exchange, all the while turning the ransom note over in his hands. The men turned to the map spread out on the desk before them. “We’ll see that a copy of the King’s writ is posted along this road first,” he said, indicating the path the young man had travelled, gesturing with the scrap of parchment. As he brought it back to rest it against his chin, he stilled, then bent to sniff at the skin, turning it over, sniffed again and then lifted it to Aragorn’s nose, who ran his top lip along the parchment delicately.

“Hoof oil,” Aragorn said.

“It’s a common enough thing,” Boromir added, “but this business keeps returning to horses. Who is your dealer?” he asked, turning to the young officer.

“His name is Solon. He’s been trading in beasts from this hamlet since after the war. The family are thought to have come down in the world. The old man, his grand-uncle, Parsolon, was once a powerful man they say, but country folk account a miller a man of property.”

Suddenly, the guard realised how his words might sting and glanced nervously at Boromir, but he was intent with the map and Aragorn gestured to him to go on. “Solon is considered honest as horse dealers go. Building himself a fair way of business.”

“Let us hope he wishes to keep it,” said Aragorn dryly. He was conscious that now Boromir had fallen silent. 

With warm praise for his work, which Boromir echoed with a terse nod, Aragorn sent the young man away to check on the progress of the scribes and to find himself a meal and a bed.

Patiently, Aragorn waited for Boromir’s fingers to stop tracing roads and estate boundaries on the map. At last, he straightened up and faced Aragorn with both anger and a measure of fear on his face.

“I know the old man, the head of the family,” he said, bleakly, “and his fortunes have indeed fallen of late. He was a man of too much power in my father’s day. He was the Steward’s steward and I refused him his place on my return.” 

Aragorn reached for Boromir’s hand and felt the fingers chill.

“Did he protest your decision?”

“Oh, he was all for the dignity of the family, would not gainsay me to my face. He said he could teach me much. I said I would have a new man, a younger man, for a time of peace. Aragorn, I paid well to be rid of him, pensioned him off like an old nag and heard no more, but I remember his reign in the household and such a man might think naught of the gold but crave the power like a drug. Once, he took a whip to Faramir as a child and our father did not say him nay…and now he has Arin under his hand.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Arin heard the raised voices from behind the barred door as he was finishing the bowl of stew Doran had handed in to him. He thought that noon had passed some hours since, but could not be sure. He had considered refusing to eat but decided that to go hungry would achieve nothing except making escape more difficult if a chance came and the stew was a good one, little meat but thick with carrots and barley. It reminded him of Nan’s cooking and for a moment the child’s throat tightened painfully at the memory, but the sound of angry words within the kitchen distracted him. He went to the door and pressed his ear to the jamb. 

He could hear snatches of an argument, two or three different voices. The old man’s croak had risen to a screech, railing at someone for their stupidity, something about ‘the woman’ and ‘raising the stakes’, and a voice he did not recognise, a man, was begging, pleading with them to go, to ‘take the boy to the old house or let him go.’

The old man had turned on him then as ‘a common trader whose father would have shuddered to see…’ and at this, the loud scraping of the bar by his ear saw Arin scurry back to the cot. He had just picked up the bowl again and was running a finger around the bottom for the last of the gravy, when the door opened and a maidservant, wiping her hands nervously on her apron, sidled in to take the bowl from the child’s outstretched hands. 

She had left the door ajar and Arin could see framed in the doorway, the old man on his feet, thrusting a bony finger into the chest of a red-faced man, who protested with “Uncle! I beg you!” whilst the thin man was glowering from a corner, pressing a clout to a bleeding nose and Doran leant, silent, against the mantle, a mug in hand. It was Doran who saw him watching, said something to the room and the red-faced man threw an arm up to shield his face from the boy’s view and scurried away.

The old man’s unblinking gaze fell on Arin and he beckoned to the boy. Arin moved slowly forward. It felt as though his legs no longer obeyed him, for he would have rather run or hid, but the gesturing hand seemed like it reeled in a fish, caught on a line. Finally, he stood before the old man, who had seated himself again in his chair and looked at him with pursed lips. The thin mouth twitched and he spoke.

“I expect to hear from Lord Boromir soon. He will know what is due to his worthy father’s prop and shield. Suitable arrangements will doubtless be made and if I consider you fit for the Steward’s House, you will be permitted to return…”

Arin could not hold his tongue and broke in, crying, “You had me write that the gold would see me home.”

“Silence!”

The hissing voice choked any further words in the boy’s throat.

“By these outbursts you merely show yourself in need of discipline. The King’s Steward is a great man with weighty matters in his keeping. He cannot spare the time to teach manners to ill-schooled whelps. This should be for your tutors and for those in whom the Steward places his greatest confidence. And who would that be, boy?”

“King Elessar,” Arin said simply.

The old man drew his breath in sharply and was seized by a coughing fit. In the moments that followed, Arin saw Doran, from out the corner of his eye, take another leisurely drink. Then, as the old man clutched at his chair and drew breath to lash out at the boy again, Doran set the mug down with a thump, strode forward and swept Arin up under his arms, carried him bodily into his cell again, dropped him on the cot and left, barring the door.

Murmuring came from the other room for a few minutes and then Arin lay down on the cot and tugged the blanket over himself. He thought about Adar and about Rullo and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out another of the precious peppermints. It was dusty and a little squashed but he slipped it into his mouth and let the sweetness and the clean smell fill his nose and mouth. 

 Arin thought about the men in the next room. The thin man enjoyed hurting people and Arin thought him cunning, but just a foot-soldier. The old man should be a leader, but Arin sensed his wavering grip on the world. Sometimes, the old man seemed to imagine that his grandfather was still alive.  Arin could not see where Doran’s place lay in the company. He decided that Doran was a mercenary there for the gold, and despite his occasional kindnesses Arin thought that Doran cared for him out of self-interest. The red-faced man was too frightened probably to be of help and the maid did not count. He had to escape somehow. It was too dangerous to wait and see if he would be set free. 

 

 


	4. Cold pressing: The Foal Chapter 4

Boromir had banked up the fire before retiring to bed and even at this late hour it glowed red across the width of the hearth, and the night chill had not penetrated the room. He was lying, propped up with pillows, a warm blanket draped over his shoulders. A sheaf of documents lay discarded, scattered across the coverlet, and he had a small leather-bound book to hand. 

Aragorn had given it to him on Arin’s last birthday. It was a collection of old poems and tales about fathers and sons from Gondor’s past, copied and bound in good leather. Although Boromir thought his voice too rough and plain for the minstrel’s role, Arin loved to hear him read and Boromir was re-reading to himself one of his bedtime favourites, the knockabout tale of a soldier, his son and an exploding suet pudding. As yet again the sergeant’s goodwife returned from market to find jam on the walls, Boromir chuckled quietly, but his knuckles showed white around the little book. At last he laid it aside, dimmed the oil lamp and settled to sleep. It was slow to come.

An angry morning sky had started to throw spears of blood-red light through the edges of the shutters, when creaking and a faint stirring from Rullo, below the foot of the bed, made Boromir awake with a start and cry out.

“Hush, love,” Aragorn’s voice was soothing, his touch as he leaned in to stroke Boromir’s cheek, soft. “I did not mean to wake you. All is well.” As the dog settled again, the long shadow shrugged off its clothes and cleared the forgotten papers from the bed.

Boromir had fallen back onto the pillows, letting his breath come in gusty sighs, eyelids closing once again. He felt the coverlet move as Aragorn slipped into the bed beside him. A lean body fitted against his, turned in, filling his angles with warmth and an arm draped possessively across his torso. The head laid on his shoulder breathed soft against his throat, but after a while it seemed that the whispered breath had turned to little puffs blown along the line of his jaw, whilst at his side fingers were walking down the linen nightshirt to grasp the hem and start to burrow underneath.

“And is this how you mean not to wake me?” growled Boromir, trying to sound gruff and sounding on the edge of laughter. Aragorn trailed the fingertips of the wandering hand, up the smooth inside of his thigh, at the same time he leant across to nuzzle into the open neck of the shirt and ground his aching cock against Boromir’s hip. Boromir could feel him, long, hot and hard, through the linen.

Boromir groaned as the questing tongue found and laved at the small nub, which tightened and pulled him upward. He wrested one arm free and pressed Aragorn’s head to his breast, even as sharp little teeth nipped, drawing from him a gasp and a hoarse exclamation, “Oh sweet!” 

Beneath the rucked shirt Aragorn took him full in hand and Boromir arched into his touch, crying out as a calloused thumb circled the head and teased at the slit, smearing his juices around and over the tender flesh.   Then as Boromir thought himself close to lost, with a surge and a gasp, he rolled over on top of Aragorn. Aragorn released his hold and Boromir somehow had both his hands above his head, caught at the wrist. For a long moment the men gazed into one another’s eyes and then Aragorn growled deep in his chest.

Later, as Boromir poured pitchers of water over his King, naked, kneeling in the tub, Aragorn gasped as the shock of cool water hit him, shaking his head, spraying drops across the bathing room. Boromir bent to fill another pitcher from a stone basin. 

They had shaped their plan with the boy’s safety at its heart. Aragorn would take a small patrol out and meet up with the guards left watching the farm. Boromir with no more than two men would follow the route given him to deliver the gold. They must assume that he was being watched from within the city. They would not approach the farm until they were sure they knew where Arin was and could reach him, before any of his captors sought to silence him. The young officer had told of woods, circling the farm buildings that both gave cover for an approach and blocked a clear view. He had left his men on a ridge some distance away.

Aragorn arose from the tub and Boromir wrapped him in a large towel. As he tended to his body, Boromir took another cloth and roughly dried his hair, wiping stray drops from his lover’s shoulders, finishing with a gentle kiss to his collarbone. He had asked Aragorn about Eldarion, who reported him quiet and rather clinging to his mother, but Arwen was sure that his usual even temper would soon return and Arwen herself was calmer too. 

Boromir had been surprised to receive a visit, the day before, from the Queen. Arwen, usually so serene, had been full of sorrow and doubt, begging Boromir’s forgiveness for not having known of Doran’s ill-intent. She had been faintly troubled when they met, but had not been able to warn of the evil to come. Momentarily lost for words, Boromir had hastened to assure her that Arin’s plight was no doing of hers, but still she grieved and Aragorn had revealed that her distress was in part because she had not sensed, had not heard, Eldarion, so long alone and weeping in the stable. Arwen was sure, he said, that if she had still walked in the light of the Valar, she would have heard him crying and they might have saved Arin, perhaps even Meriel. Both men knew that the girl’s life had been forfeit in a single breath, but Arwen’s grief was real and despite her protests, Aragorn had remained to soothe and reassure her through the watches of the night.

Now the men prepared themselves to go out from the city in search of their son. One went publicly, but quietly, riding out through the main gate, with two guards and a string of packhorses, the other like a ghost, on foot, left by a small postern, cloaked and hooded, running for a mile or so until he reached a rocky defile, where a detachment of soldiers who’d quit the city earlier waited for him. A guard dismounted from the King’s horse and held his stirrup. They left the man keeping watch to see if they were followed. The white smoke of a signal fire would let them know he had seen pursuers.  

On the road east Boromir and his guards made good time. They would follow this route for an hour before leaving the main road to strike out for the spot where they were to leave the gold. As they went, the King’s Steward saw, displayed at crossroads and at boundary markers, King Elessar’s writ, the red wax seals catching the morning light, and he smiled to himself. The scribes and messengers had been busy through the night and many a village headman had found himself called from his bed by a King’s messenger on a sweating horse, handing him the parchment and a mallet; announcing that he’d see it posted then and there, by the flare of carried torches.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

As long as the light held, Arin had examined every brick in the walls of his little room, but it had been well chosen as a place of confinement, sturdy, the walls too smooth to climb and his finger still throbbed where he’d reached for the window sill, only to by caught by the glass shards embedded in the mortar. The door was old but also strong, with big iron hinges; this might have been a storeroom for precious foodstuffs. He’d scuffed his feet across the dirt floor, but no hidden trapdoor revealed itself and digging under the wall was not an option in the time he thought he had. The cot frame was so heavy he struggled to lift it, but might come apart if he worked at it. It was as he was planning how to take it to pieces and then what he might do with several short pieces of wood, that the scraping of the bar lifting sent him back to sitting on the mattress. Doran appeared at the door and held it wide as the maid servant entered carrying his supper on a tray, which she set down on the floor, just raising her eyes to meet his.

It seemed to Arin that the girl’s gaze held his for a moment longer than was polite and he lifted his chin and stared back. Then her eyes dipped to the tray again and she backed out, followed by Doran.  Arin scrambled across to the food. There was a wooden bowl of porridge, running with honey, a thick oat bannock, cheese and a beaker of ale. There was also a horn spoon for the porridge and as Arin picked it up he realised that the handle had been broken off at the end, leaving a hard, narrow point, sharp as any awl. For a moment Arin stared at it, then he began to eat. He would think what to do with it later, if he were able to keep it hidden, and in the meantime the food was cooling. 

He was finishing the last of the bannock and cheese, the precious spoon tucked in the front of his shirt, when the door was unbarred and the maid returned, watched by Doran. It seemed that she was in a hurry, for she bundled up the bowl and beaker on the tray and was half out of the door, when Doran caught her roughly by the shoulder.

“Where’s the spoon?” he growled.

The girl looked back at him blankly. “The spoon?”

“Go and get it from him,” and he spun her around and sent her back into the cell with a smart slap on her rump.

The maid tottered towards Arin, balancing the tray in one hand, the other hand on her hip.

“Well, boy, you are giving me trouble,” she said, holding out her hand – and then she winked.

Arin blinked, but he reached slowly into his shirt and brought out the spoon.

“And I should think so too,” she huffed, reaching to take it and momentarily shielding Arin with her body, so that the man stood in the doorway did not see the little knife that slid out of her sleeve into his lap as she snatched the spoon. When she flounced away, Arin was looking crestfallen, gripping his hands on his knees, the precious blade clasped, hidden, between his legs, as Doran chuckled and slammed the door.

Arin slumped back against the wall, giddy. He could feel the hard outline of the knife but he sat there, not daring to move, in case Doran returned unexpectedly. Once all had gone quiet from behind the door and his heart had stopped jumping around as though it would leave his chest, Arin retrieved the knife. It had a worn wooden handle and a short blade, perhaps a knife for cutting vegetables. It would not dig him out of his cell but Arin knew it for a precious thing so, using the blade and his fingers, he dug a shallow place for it in the floor close to the wall and smoothed the beaten earth back when he was done. 

There was no sign of the maid, in the kitchen or the yard, when Doran took him later to the latrine and then to the trough. As they came back through the kitchen Arin thought he could hear the old man’s croak and the maid’s lighter tones, from another room, but neither were to be seen. Arin waited under the window of his cell, hoping to hear a whispered voice call to him. None came near before nightfall, but still he went to his bed knowing that someone in that place wished him well and moreover, might help him.

In the morning, he had not yet ventured out from under his blanket into the grey light, when there was a commotion in the yard, shouts and curses, that moved to the kitchen. There were raised voices, the unsettling sound of a man wailing and then a crash of crockery. Through the hubbub the old man’s voice could be heard calling on someone to “Fetch him!” and before Arin could think to rise from his bed to retrieve the knife, the bar was lifted away and the door flung open. It was the thin man who swooped on him, hauling him up by his collar, choking, and marched him out into the kitchen where the old man was hunched in his chair, his red-faced ‘nephew’ was stood before the fire clenching his fists and at the far wall, the maid was knelt, putting the shards of a bowl into her gathered apron and scraping some mess that had been spilt, from the floor onto a wooden platter.

As Arin stood there, the old man raised his eyes to his face and the boy thought they glittered as though with fever. He beckoned to Arin and the thin man thrust him forward to fall on his knees before the old man’s chair.

“I thought you boasted, child,” he said slowly, watching the boy’s face for every flicker of emotion, but Arin was bewildered and gazed at him uncomprehending. “You told me that King Elessar and the Lord Boromir were close, that the Steward trusted him as no other and I did not see the truth of it.”

It was at this moment that Doran burst into the room, breathing hard and thrust a parchment into the old man’s hands. 

“I took it from the market cross,” he said grimly and spat into the fire, narrowly missing the nephew’s hovering figure. The old man looked at it and stilled, then his eyes flicked to Arin’s face and he read aloud the King’s decree.

The child’s mouth fell open as the words cut into the morning air and as the doom allotted to accomplices unfolded, without thinking he turned to look at the red-faced man who started towards him with a raised fist. Doran stopped him with a blow that sent him reeling back.

The old man looked around and beckoned to the maid. He pressed the parchment into her hands. 

“Return this to the market cross, girl. If any should ask, say that I had heard the distressing news and wanted to read the King’s decree for myself.” 

The girl ducked her head and was gone.

The old man leant towards Arin again and one knarled hand stretched out to pet his hair. 

“He sets your value with that of princes, child. We must see that you are worthy of the honour…schooled well.” 

As he continued to stroke the hair of the silent child kneeling before him, watching his face with eager eyes, Doran elbowed the nephew to the side, fetched down a mug and poured himself ale. The thin-faced man, was shifting from foot-to-foot.

“Maybe,” he said, “we should have asked for more?”

“No, no,” replied the old man softly, as Arin shivered beneath his touch, “it was a fit price. You and Doran may take my share. Lord Boromir will reward me in due course.” 

By the fire, Doran paused in raising his mug, whilst the thin man hissed through his teeth and would have clapped the old man on the shoulder but saw Doran’s face and thought better of it. The nephew, excluded from this largesse and seeing only looming disaster, wailed despairingly.

“Uncle…uncle! There may be soldiers searching for the boy already. They know my connection with Doran. They will come here first. Even if he goes back, he will tell all. What about the lady? He saw it done and who pays for her?”

Arin’s eyes widened and he shook a little, the darkness in the stable was coming out of the shadows and he did not want to see it clearly. 

Beside him, the thin man bared his teeth at the nephew, who remembered that it was still his house and set his jaw at him. 

“Oh, we’ll be long gone, never you fear,” sneered the thin man, “and you can tell the King’s soldiers with a good conscience that you have no idea where.”

“But did you not hear the writ?” protested the nephew. “I will have nothing left, nothing…”

“Hush, hush,” crooned the old man, cupping Arin’s cheek in his hand, “I will take care of you, Solon. I always have.”

His nephew drew breath to spit the words back at him, but a clatter from the doorway announced the return of the maid and the words remained unsaid. The old man told the girl to prepare a good breakfast for the young master and he would eat it in his own chamber, and he motioned to Doran, who held out his hand to Arin. Arin looked at it warily, then scrambled, unaided, to his feet and walked alone back to his prison, followed by Doran who shut the door and dropped the bar before the child was halfway across the floor to the cot.

Sat with his back to the wall, Arin could not stop shivering, even with the blanket draped around his shoulders. When the maid had re-appeared in the doorway, for a moment he’d seen Meriel’s dark curls and merry eyes. There were tears gathering in his throat and he rocked himself back-and-forth on the bed, his distress growing with every moment.

By the time the girl entered the cell, carrying a loaded tray, the child had stopped crying, but the tracks of tears were clearly visible on his face and she was made uneasy by the vacant look in his eyes. Doran had gone out and the thin man was on guard, but he had wandered from the doorway back into the kitchen to snatch a slice of bacon from the sizzling pan. Glancing back, she crossed swiftly to the child, laid the tray on the bed and sat beside him. There was too little time to be gentle, so she clasped his cold hands firmly between her own warm ones and whispered, “Boy…boy, you must eat now. You need to be strong to escape. I will try to help you, but you must help me too.”

The child looked at her and she nodded encouragingly. Quickly, she broke off a morsel of honeycomb in her fingers and pressed it into his mouth. The child chewed a couple of times and then swallowed slowly. She smiled a little at him, fed him another piece, then before their jailer might come back, she put the little pot of honey into his hand and sucked at her sticky fingers. The child smiled wanly at her and she patted his knee. Then she glanced back to the door and whispered “Is it safe?”

The child’s eyes darted briefly to the other side of the room and he nodded once. “Good. I’ll go out some time to fetch water and I’ll stop outside there,” and she pointed to the little window. “Now eat.” and she was gone, whisking out of the room, calling the thin man back to close and bar the door. 

Alone again on the bed, Arin looked at the food and for a moment he wavered, but he put his hand, palm down, on the bed where the girl had been sitting. The blanket was still warm and holding her warmth to him, with his other hand he tipped the honey into the steaming bowl of porridge, picked up the horn spoon, a different one this time, and began to eat slowly and deliberately. After the porridge, there was bacon and a potato cake, thick with onion and herbs and cooked in the bacon fat. He needed both hands to cut the bacon, but shifted over on the bed to her place. A small mug of ale and a sweet roll, studded with raisins, completed his feast. As he drained the mug, Arin wondered whether he should dig up the knife, to have it with him, but he knew that soon someone would return to fetch the tray and he must not be found with it.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

Boromir reined in his horse and surveyed the gully and the dried-out stream-bed over which the small ruined bridge, its broken span sticking out like a jagged tooth, grinning into the air, hovered uncertainly. Behind him, the guards leading the packhorses, were urging their beasts in and out of the boulders. This place was well chosen. The ground was too rough for rapid movement and there was no proper cover below a belt of scrubby bushes, half way up the sloping sides of the little valley. 

Moving as briskly as they could, the men unpacked the wooden boxes from the packsaddles and stacked them in the shadow cast by the broken span. Then they remounted and rode away, not looking back. As they left the narrow defile that marked the end of the valley and came out onto smoother ground, they let their horses canter on until they reached a thick belt of trees, when they wheeled to a stop. Boromir dismounted, looped his reins over a branch, and walked swiftly to the edge of the thicket, keeping out of sight behind a sturdy trunk. Behind him he heard the brush of branches as the guards joined him in scanning the direction from which they’d come and the hills around.

The two men he had selected for the detail were well chosen. They had ridden and hunted over this part of the country since childhood. Now he would leave them to watch over the gold. If it took six animals to carry in the ransom, it would take at least as many to retrieve it. The guards would watch. One would trail any who came to take up the gold, whilst the other carried word back. He would be taking a wide loop around the valley, towards the direction of the farmstead in which they believed Arin to be held and he would watch the other path in to the broken bridge.

Some hour later Boromir was pushing on, driving his horse along narrow paths, leaning back in the saddle, braced on his stirrups, as they slid down sandy banks, the big bay’s hooves starting small avalanches of earth as he plunged forward, snorting with impatience. Boromir had skirted tracks that came out onto the ridges of hills. He could not be seen on the skyline, but by the same token he could not get a clear view of the country around. They were in a strip of woodland now, copses like islands in a sea of grass, and the bay was starting to labour a little, but they were close to the other end of the valley with the broken bridge and Boromir was startled to suddenly see, ahead of him, weaving through a belt of trees, a lone rider. He brought the bay to a slithering stop and walked him for a few strides, until they could get into deep shade and then he halted. 

The rider halted likewise and for a moment Boromir held his breath as the figure turned in his saddle to scan the landscape around him. After a few moments, the rider moved off down the path towards the little valley and Boromir followed long enough to be sure that was where he was headed, before he retreated to a large copse, dismounted and loosened the bay’s girth. This lone rider could only be a scout, gone to check if the ransom had been delivered. He must needs either return this way again, or pass the posted guards…and when he did, Boromir would be waiting.  

 

 


	5. Cold Pressing: The Foal Chapter 5

Boromir had been sitting, his back against a tree and the bay’s reins looped over his arm, for a good hour or more before the thud of hooves and the faint jingle of a loose curb chain, announced the return of the scout, cantering through the wash of long grass. The rider passed within an arrow’s length of him, a heavy-set man on a stocky riding horse, with bulging saddlebags and a satisfied smile that set Boromir’s teeth on edge. He stood in the shadow of the trees, his hands on Cedar’s head so that the horse might not call to the other beast, but they itched to wipe the smirk from the man’s face and make him tell all. 

Forcing himself to breathe slowly, Boromir waited until the rider was some ways away, then remounted and began to follow him, moving in the lee of the trees wherever possible, preferring to hang back and take the risk of losing him to a hidden trail, rather than have the man see him. He was keeping the map of this part of the country in his mind’s eye and was sure that they were now fairly close to the farm, so that when the scout slowed his beast to a walk and turned in his saddle to look behind him, before turning off the main track towards the holding, Boromir had already checked Cedar and was hidden in a stand of low scrubby willows, lying flat along the horse’s neck to avoid being seen.

Once the rider had gone, Boromir dismounted and crept forward to the end of the willow brake. The paddocks surrounding the yard contained some dozen or more beasts, from sturdy ponies to some rangy young-stock with good blood. There was a stiff breeze blowing up from the west, which was starting to make the horses restless. He and Cedar were upwind and the beasts would soon catch their scent, but with luck the strengthening wind, now bending the tops of the surrounding trees, whipping the branches back-and-forth, would be blamed if anyone saw the horses skitter about their enclosures. He could not see pack animals amongst the string, but there was a large range of outbuildings surrounding the farmyard, so like as not the packhorses were stabled elsewhere.

He dearly wished that he could go on, creep up to the buildings themselves and try to locate Arin, but one man alone was a liability when they knew so little. If those in the farm thought themselves cornered they might become desperate and the risk to Arin’s life would be too great. Boromir scanned the slopes of the hills surrounding the hamlet. Somewhere Aragorn and his patrol were doubtless watching him. He needed to join up with them, to find out what they knew of the farm and its inhabitants, so Boromir remounted and retraced his way along the track until he could safely strike out uphill and get above the tree-line, to remain unseen by any watching from the farm.

The guard who met him and took his horse to tether it alongside the other mounts, handed him a short cloak with a deep hood, mottled in green and brown, which Boromir shrugged on over his clothing. At the treeline, he paused to scan the scrub of gorse and other low bushes that extended down the hill in clumps for some way and eventually located half a dozen figures, motionless, blended into the landscape, some apparently scanning the horizon in different directions, whilst others held their attention firmly to the farm buildings laid out below them. One cloaked figure caught his gaze and Boromir thought he would always be able to pick Aragorn out, simply by the way he held himself, relaxed and yet alert.

Boromir slipped quietly from bush to bush and as he came up on Aragorn, the man turned to him with a nod and a brief smile. The figure beside him, peering out from beneath his hood proved to be the young officer, who glanced at him, touched his brow in salute and turned back to his survey of the scene below. Aragorn sat back onto the sloping ground behind the gorse and motioned for Boromir to join him. In the thick of the gorse brake, they were sheltered from the wind, but even so Aragorn leant in to him to speak low in his ear.

“Your man went in to the farmhouse and has not been seen since.”

Boromir rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a gloved finger.

“Do we know how many there are within?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Not for sure. Local gossip says the household varies in number. The old man moved back to his nephew’s holding when the big house fell into ruin. Usually there are grooms employed by the horse dealer, but he sent them away some days ago. There is one servant who lives in, a maid. Strangers have been seen at the farm of late but none could give very accurate accounts of numbers or manner of men. The guards posted overnight saw figures moving about between the paddocks and outbuildings. They were too far away to say whether they were the same men or different.”

“We miss the elf’s keen sight,” Boromir grunted. Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder.

“The bait has been laid. Now let us see if the vermin will take it.” Just then, the young officer turned back to them, gesturing eagerly. 

Aragorn and Boromir scrambled to join him. Below them, they could see beasts being led from an outbuilding and tied along one of the paddock rails.   In all ten horses were brought out and as they were harnessed the herd resolved itself into a string of two riding horses and eight pack animals.   The maximum number of men working on them together was three and at one point Aragorn nudged Boromir, pointing to a doorway where the figure of a fourth man stood watching the preparations in the yard. 

It was whilst the packhorses were being harnessed one behind the other, that a faint curse issued from Boromir’s lips as out from the farmhouse a man stalked, carrying a kicking, struggling small boy whose hands appeared bound. If the boy was yelling, the wind carried his cries away so that they could not hear him, but the man cuffed the child around the head and hoisted him across his saddle bow, before mounting and settling Arin astride before him. With a lead rein for the pack animals in one hand, the man had no spare arm to hold the boy, and the child clutched at the horse’s mane to steady himself. The men chirruped to the packhorses and the string moved off.

Aragorn had been still, his whole body taut. As the riders and their captive trotted past them in the valley below, the young captain began to stir, but Aragorn laid a hand on his arm and Boromir shook his head, saying, “Nay lad. Sit tight, whilst we think this one through.”

A soldier was signalled to take their place in the watch and the men crawled away to a point where they were out of sight of the farmhouse and could stand and work out cramped muscles. Aragorn stamped his feet on the ground and looked across to Boromir, hugging his arms about his body, stretching out stiff shoulders. 

“He looked well,” Aragorn said.

Boromir looked across to him briefly with a tight smile.

“He’s showing his mettle. That’s enough for now.” 

Aragorn could see the young captain was restless, anxious to be moving off and half-smiled to himself thinking that he must have been much like this, once long ago.

“They can only move slowly with the pack animals fully laden, so they have taken the boy as a bargaining tool, in case they meet with us whilst they have the gold,” explained Boromir, who had also seen the tension in the young man’s jaw, “but in order for Arin to be a successful pawn, he must be alive and well, so that we will value his future and stand back. It would be the matter of a moment to kill him,” and his voice became hoarse, “but they would lose their shield. They likely plan to take him at least as far as the border. You saw them tack up: they have no supplies for a journey, so they must needs come back here. Whilst the boy is with them and the gold, he is safe enough, but we will send a couple of scouts after them now to check that they do not meet with misfortune on the way, or have some hidden cache of food to plunder.”

The young man nodded and beckoned a couple of men from a group at the horse line. As they approached he asked, “What of the soldiers you left watching the ransom. Might they be able to rescue the boy?”

“Nay, lad,” replied Boromir. “The place was well chosen. There is no cover for a man within bowshot and the ground is too rough to make a run at them. Our men must wait and watch.”

“In the meantime,” said Aragorn, throwing the hood back from his face, “this is our opportunity to scout closer to the farmstead itself, perhaps even to take it…”

“And when our thieves return,” continued Boromir, “they may not get the homecoming they had imagined.” 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..  

For a few cold, frightening, moments Arin had thought they meant to roll him into the suffocating sack again and he’d struggled in Doran’s grip, protesting. Then the man had buffeted him across the side of his head so that he bit his lip and as he was gasping for breath, hoisted him across the front of his saddle. There was enough play in the twine around his wrists that he could grasp hold of the horse’s mane, gripping hard with his knees to the warm hide as the party moved off. He could feel the hard length of the precious blade tucked into the top of his breeches, but escape was far from his mind and as Doran urged his beast into a trot, Arin clung on tightly and concentrated on not falling.

The morning had been a series of long waits for things to happen. After breakfast the thin man had escorted him to the stinking outhouse with a bad grace and when Arin had gone to wash his hands and face in the trough, he’d thought it a huge jest to plunge the child’s head beneath the water and hold it there, whilst his arms flailed. Arin had been allowed up spluttering, his nose and face aching, filled with water and almost threw up over the man’s feet. 

The maid had suddenly appeared loud and shrill at the thin man’s ear, with a rough towel for Arin’s hair. She ushered him back into the kitchen, seating him before the fire to dry. The old man had been sunk in thought, almost as though he did not know that Arin was there. The girl gave Arin a beaker of ale, into which she’d plunged the hot poker to warm it and when the thin man had demanded the same, she’d brandished the poker with enough vehemence to make him take his brew to the other side of the room to drink it. None of them noticed her replacing the poker into the heart of the glowing brazier.

Then Arin had been locked in again, but whilst he waited for the girl to make good on her promise to speak more to him, he decided that he must risk discovery and dug up the little knife. Fingers shaking, he brushed the earth from the blade. He tried several different places to hide it, but the best one was lying flat against his stomach, rolled in the waistband of his breeches. He was walking around his cell to see if it would stay in place, when a soft whisper through the little window made him scramble for the bed.

“Boy? Boy, are you there?”

Arin stretched up on tiptoe, his hands pressed against the wall to steady him. 

“I’m here.”

The girl’s voice lowered even more, so that he had to strain to hear her.

“After the noon meal they will need to see to the horses. Can you pretend to be ill? Sick to your stomach?”

Arin thought for a moment. “Yes,” he hissed.

“I will say I am too busy to tend to you and suggest they tie you near the latrine. If you can bring the knife you may be able to free yourself. When you are loose, go around the back of the outhouse. There’s a path that runs into the woods. There are no scent dogs here, so you can lie low if you can find a good hiding place. If they ask I will say you went towards the hamlet. Do you understand?”

There was silence. In the yard, the girl looked swiftly around her and then bent down to the little grille, whispering urgently, “Boy! Can you hear me?”

A very small voice answered her.

“Do you think if they get the gold, they will let me go?”

She would not frighten the child further, but dared not lie to him in this.

“No, boy. They will not let you go.” Nor me either, she thought, but did not voice the fear. She had her own plans, but the child must be got away first.

In the event, all their scheming had gone awry. Doran had arrived back just before noon, carrying bulging saddlebags. The old man had ordered Arin brought out to see the first of the treasure, given for him. In the firelight, the scattered coins splashed the old wooden table with glittering drops of molten gold. The nephew was testing coins between his teeth when the thin man snarled at him to leave well alone, but Doran, draining a mug and handing it back to the maid, was more conciliatory. They would set off shortly to collect the rest of the ransom and if the nephew would help them with their beasts then, and also when they returned to collect food and their gear before leaving for good, he could have what lay there. Solon’s eyes flicked from the man’s face to the table, as if calculating whether the price was high enough, then he swallowed nervously and pointedly ignored the thin man’s mocking laugh behind him, as he dropped a coin on the floor at the nephew’s feet and watched him scramble for it.

Arin stood rigid beside the old man’s chair. He hardly dared to breath, remembering the girl’s words. The old man had a hand on Arin’s shoulder, his thumb stroking the child’s neck below his ear, into which he was pouring a commentary on the proper engagement of servants. 

“You will always find those who will do your bidding for gold, child, but their loyalty is questionable. In the end, they are weak, setting no value on the honour of the house. You will remember this lesson.” 

And he nipped the child’s earlobe between his nails, drawing blood, so that Arin gasped in pain. The nephew, scooping coins into a pile, seemed not to hear, but Doran’s steady gaze hardly left Arin’s face, and the child did not know where to look, other than to watch the golden drops coalesce into a wide pool in the middle of the table.

Doran had eventually urged the other men outside to start harnessing the horses and Arin had been left with the maid and the old man. The girl brought her apron up to use it as a shield and had pushed the mound of coins to one side. Then she drew a stool to the table, motioned Arin to sit and from an oven at the side of the fire she drew a pie dish. There were savoury smells coming from under the crust and the old man chuckled under his breath as he shuffled his chair forward to sit beside the child. The girl set wooden platters before them and ladled out a stew, topped off with a golden crust onto each plate, before placing spoons and beakers on the table, along with a jug of ale. Arin picked up his spoon. Although he was hungry and the pie smelt good, he was remembering that this was the food he must throw up in a short time and suddenly it became more difficult to force it down. 

He had eaten no more than a few spoonfuls of the stew, when Doran came clattering into the kitchen, glanced around and snatched a length of twine from a peg by the door. Without saying a word, he came to Arin, took the spoon from his hand, then caught the two together and began to bind them. The child could not contain his fright and tried to pull away, crying out.  Parsolon looked sharply at Doran and his tone was cold.

“Let the child be. He stays here. I will not have you trailing him all over.”

Doran did not shift his gaze, or still his busy hands as they tied the twine.

“The boy comes with us. He’s our bond against the Steward or the King’s men thinking to claim that ransom back.”

The old man brought his fist down on the table with a crash and leant forward with glittering eyes, hissing, “The boy stays here.”

Doran shrugged and hauled Arin to his feet. “He goes where I say, old man.”

With a roar Parsolon surged to his feet and threw the contents of his mug in Doran’s face, who turned back to him and shoved him backwards, with the flat of his hand on the old man’s chest. Parsolon gasped, surprised, and collapsed into his chair. 

Arin, dragged almost off his feet by the collar of his shirt grasped tight in Doran’s other hand, did not see the wicked little knife protruding from Doran’s sleeve and when Doran turned to look smiling at the maid, Arin, choking and crying, did not see her snatch the hot poker from the brazier and face the man, so that Doran spread his fingers in submission, and the thin blade slide back out of view. Doran simply turned back to him, tucked the struggling child under his arm and left the kitchen.

The girl had slumped to the floor momentarily, shaking, before she slowly laid the poker aside and crawled over to where Parsolon was gasping shallow breaths, sweat standing on his brow. She dragged herself up his chair and tentatively touched the breast of his gown, which was wet with blood. A few drops had spattered across the table, stained the golden crust on the pie.    At the door, Solon was kicking his boots against the jamb to knock off mud from the yard. He saw the girl leaning over his uncle’s chair and exclaimed, “You amaze me, uncle. I had thought you would keep the boy here, for all Doran’s fussing.” 

He came around to the other side of the chair and the girl saw him blench, start back, mouth agape, as he saw the blood on her hands and the old man’s rolling eyes and slack jaw, dribbling blood-flecked foam, that tried to speak to him.

 “I must get him to his bed,” the girl said, and when he had not stirred, “will you help me, sir? Your uncle needs care!” 

Solon swallowed hard, then wiped his palms on his breeches and tentatively laid hands on his uncle to lift him from his chair. The horse dealer seemed surprised at how light the old man was and carried him quickly from the kitchen to his own bed in the adjoining room, where he laid him down and then backed away. Parsolon was still trying to talk to him, his mouth moving slowly, but Solon turned and left, almost colliding with the maid, carrying a bowl of hot water and linen into the room.

She had no more than a common skill in healing, but even she knew that the old man was finished, his life ebbing away. Regardless, she cleaned the little wound, packed it with clean linen and bound strips tight around his thin chest. As she came back out into the kitchen to throw the bloodied water away, Solon was finishing packing the last of the gold coins into a saddlebag. A bedroll lay on the table by the cooling pie.

 “Will you go, sir, and fetch the King’s men?” she asked, pleading. “The child is in danger.”

“The ‘child’, girl, will get us all hanged. Do you think you will be safe? Do not set your life against a child’s word…and if that thug, Doran, should harm him…” he pulled the last buckle tight. “I have stayed too long already. Lost too much for that mad old man soaking my best bed with his blood. This,” and he hefted the saddlebag over his shoulder, “will allow me to begin again, perhaps in Khand. They know horses in Khand. Get out now. Take one of the ponies. I gift it to you.” And he was gone, running across the yard, his bags and bundles bumping against his legs, and into the stableblock.

 

 


	6. Cold Pressing: The Foal Chapter 6

 

Up on the hillside, Aragorn and Boromir watched the nephew’s dash across the yard and some minutes later his rapid departure, on a good horse, in the opposite direction from that taken by Arin and his captors. Boromir turned to the young captain. 

“Send a couple of your men to retrieve our hasty friend and mind that they bring him back in one piece…I would have words with him.” 

They watched for some minutes more. The holding looked deserted. Aragorn sought Boromir’s gaze and silently jerked his head towards the farmstead. Boromir nodded and the men began to move out, reconnoitring to see how many of the conspirators might be left there.

Whilst the officer and some of his men circled off to the east, to approach the farmhouse from the hamlet, Aragorn and Boromir slid quietly through the tree cover further west, coming upon the back of a range of outbuildings fringed by thick woodland. Several times Boromir lost sight of Aragorn as he drifted, soft-footed and shadowy in the long Ranger cloak, amongst the tree trunks. Boromir felt stiff and clumsy and more than once he silent cursed the life that led him to spend so much time indoors, where he felt he was letting his old skills slip from his body; however, as they moved along the back of the stable block, closer to the house, it was Boromir whose sharp ears heard a woman’s voice coming from behind a shuttered window.

They had come across no sentries posted, no dog had barked at their approach. The farm buildings provided ample opportunity for a well-placed bowman to keep intruders at bay, but none had been encountered and so the men soon found themselves pressed against the farmhouse wall by an open doorway. Both had drawn swords and Aragorn carried a throwing knife at the ready, but as they slid quietly into what appeared to be the farm kitchen there was no-one to be seen. 

They were moving further into the room, when hurried footsteps behind them and then a gasp and a crash of crockery brought them spinning around to see a white-faced maid, a broken basin spilling water across the floor at her feet, clutching at the edge of a curtain to hold herself upright. Swiftly Boromir held a finger up to his lips and the girl nodded. From the room behind her, there was a faint moaning, but as the moments passed in silence and none other came to investigate the sound, the men looked at eachother and nodded and breathed a little easier.

Behind them, the girl cleared her throat, “They’ve all gone, my lords. There is only me and an old man, a dying man, in that room. The men are gone. They took the boy with them.” 

A whistle from the front of the house brought an answering one from Boromir and the sound of splintering wood and voices announced the arrival of the officer and his men, who confirmed that they’d met with no-one in the house. To be sure of their position, Boromir sent the officer off with his men to do a complete sweep, from cellar to attics of the farmhouse and every outbuilding, shed and stable-block on the property. 

As Boromir talked through the posting of sentries, Aragorn walked past the girl and into the room where the old man lay. He was not gone for long and as he returned he clasped the girl by the arm, drew her with him back into the kitchen and sat her down on a stool before the hearth. The fire had died down. Aragorn took logs from a basket and added them to the brazier. He picked up a poker, lying on the floor, to rake away some of the ash and saw a shiver run through the girl’s frame, but her voice came to him quiet but firm. 

“Are you the boy’s father, my lord?” 

The dark man hesitated momentarily, but indicated the fair-haired lord with the scarred face, just now sending the young soldier on his way. 

“There is the King’s Steward, girl,” and as she rose from her seat, the fair man, peeling off his gauntlets to toss them on the table, responded with the dry rejoinder, “And there is the King.”  

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

After so long cooped up in the little room Arin would have relished being outside and on a horse, except that perched in front of Doran’s saddle he felt as though he would fall at any moment. The men were not pushing the beasts so hard as to tire them before they had even loaded the gold, which would be heavy, but they were moving briskly and the child’s hands were beginning to bleed, so tightly had he wound them in the coarse mane to help him stay on.

He wondered what it would be like to fall. He had taken plenty of tumbles from his pony, but this was a lot further to the ground and they were moving faster. Behind them, the thin man started to sing a tavern song. Doran shut him up with a coarse oath, telling him that they need not invite trouble. The party were moving through a valley of short grasses, dotted with clumps of trees. Arin tried to snatch the odd glance to see if he might spot pursuers. If he fell, deliberately threw himself from the horse, would he be able to reach a clump of trees and hide before Doran rode him down?

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

The white-faced girl had begun to curtsey before Aragorn, but looked so shaken that he and Boromir had caught her as she sank down and placed her back onto the stool. Boromir glanced around, took up a horn beaker from the table, sluiced it out and refilled it from a jug of ale. Then he handed it to her, clasping both of her hands around the vessel, saying, “Here, drink it slowly.” 

As she sipped at the ale, the men filled mugs for themselves. Boromir asked Aragorn how he had found the old man. 

“He’s sinking,” replied Aragorn. “He has a few hours perhaps, clinging to this world by will alone. Another and a younger man might already be dead.”

“Can he speak?”

“He tries even now.”

Aragorn hesitated, seeing the determination in Boromir’s face. “He may be able to answer you, Boromir, or he may not know who questions him.” 

Boromir turned to the maid who was listening to their conversation, her composure returned.

“What is your name, girl?”

“I am called Rowan, my lord.”

Boromir drew up a stool and sat facing her. She could see clearly the tension in the tired face, the determination in the lines around what should have been kind eyes. 

“Well, Rowan,” said the Steward, “and what can you tell us of this business?”

She had told them all that she knew, which was little enough. The nephew had been considered a hindrance at best and his servant merely a source of food, a good fire and a clean shirt. Rowan tried to remember any snatches of conversation she might have overheard, whether she understood them or not, and she described what she had seen. 

When she came to relate their dealings with Arin, her hands twisted in her apron, seeing the pain and the anger in Boromir’s eyes. King Elessar sat as though carved from stone and his face was grave. As Rowan gave her account of the attack on Parsolon, gesturing with her hands, trying to describe the sudden appearance of the hidden blade, the lines around the Steward’s mouth thinned and the King leant forward to place a hand on the fair man’s shoulder, saying, “He needs Arin whole, remember that.”

The fair lord nodded but there was a catch in his voice when he answered, “He is only a child…”

“The boy has a knife too, sir,” put in Rowan, and when they stared at her, she began to explain their plan for escape but stumbled in the telling, her voice trailing away as she realised that if it were found now, or worse, if Arin tried to use it as a weapon, the results could be dire. 

“Arin is a cautious soul, Boromir. He will not risk angering Doran after what happened to the old man.” Aragorn’s grip on Boromir’s shoulder was insistent and eventually, the man turned to him, to meet his gaze and take comfort from it.

The girl’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “He did not see it…see the dagger. I do not think he knows what Doran did.”

Boromir groaned and his head bowed.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Arin had tired, clinging to the moving horse, very quickly and Doran was finally forced to tuck his rein arm around him, else the child would have fallen. The boy was painfully aware that Doran’s arm now all but rested on the knife in his waistband, but his legs and his sides ached too much for him to care greatly. At last the string had slowed to a walk as they’d started down a narrow track between tall trees and once they came out onto rock-strewn slopes Doran had let go of him again to better guide his mount and the pack-animals following on. 

Up ahead, Arin could see a small ruined bridge and as they came up on it, Doran swung his riding horse aside and some twenty yards or so up the hillside he dismounted, hitched the horse to a boulder and lifted Arin down. Then he took the lead-rein end of the twine around his wrists and anchored it around another heavy rock, giving it an experimental tug to make sure that it would not come loose. He grinned at Arin.

“Now you stay there quiet, little master, whilst we do all the heavy work. Have you got any more of those sweets?” Doran leant in to search around in Arin’s pockets and the child held his breath, sure that at any moment he would find the knife, but Doran simply fished out the remaining dusty peppermints, popped one into Arin’s mouth, saying, “They’ve got a sweet smell,” and one into his own mouth, pocketing the rest. Then he strode off down the slope towards where the thin man was tethering the packhorses in a line.

It was none too warm on the slope, sitting on damp ground in his shirtsleeves, so Arin found himself a sheltered place in the lee of a large rock, from where he could see below him the men at work. They were bringing out boxes from a pile under the bridge, opening each to check on the contents and then closing them up again and hoisting them up onto the pack animals. The boxes were clearly very heavy and it would be slow work.

Once he was sure that Doran was busy below, Arin looked more carefully at the bindings on his wrists. In leaving him enough slack to help him ride, Doran had also left him enough to manoeuvre the knife if he was careful, but Arin was still undecided about what to do. The girl’s old plan had been simple: get free, run, hide and later he could go to someone in the hamlet for help. Now he had no idea where he was and help could be a long way away. If he left on foot they would ride him down easily. As the men worked on, Arin swithered between trying to escape there and going back with them to the farmstead and to his only ally. 

It was as he settled on freeing himself there, but trying to hide it from Doran and returning to the farm, that he glanced down the hillside and realised with a stab of panic that more than half of the packhorses had boxes affixed to their pack-harness. The boy scrabbled for his little knife and then forced himself to still his trembling hands before he worked the blade around in his fingers until he could wedge it, blade up, between his knees. Glancing now-and-then to check on the men below, Arin inserted the tip of the blade through a single loop and began to saw his hands back and forth. It was not a very sharp knife, but the twine parted easily and Arin worked his hands free, trying to keep as much of the old binding intact as he could, until he had two connected loops of twine laid in his lap. 

Arin put the little knife back into its hiding-place at his waist. Adar had taught him a quick-release knot. If he could tie the cut ends like that, get his hands back into the bindings and hide the knot, he could release his hands whenever he wanted. Down in the valley the men were working on the last couple of boxes. They were laughing, planning how to spend their new wealth, fragments of conversation floated up to the anxious child. The knot came easily enough, but he had to pull the loops tighter to tie it and when he tried to put his hands back into the bindings they were too small. The men were starting to gather up the packhorses in readiness for moving off again. Arin pursed his fingers together and pushed one hand through, but now the other was much harder to do and Doran had started up the hillside towards him. Frantic, he laid his hand in its twine bindings against a rock and pushed with all his weight. The pain shot through his fingers as the skin scraped off on twine and rock alike and then he was in! With a few strides to spare he gripped the knot to hide it and when Doran appeared he was scrubbing the tears from his eyes with his knuckles. 

“I’m cold,” he whined and hunched up against the rock, as Doran unhitched his leash from the boulder. The man looked at the child, shrugged and then picked him up and set him on the back of the horse.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Boromir would have had few qualms about pressing the captured Solon hard for his information, but in the event no additional persuasion was needed. The man had been dragged in weeping and protesting his, comparative, innocence in the matter, and had thrown himself at Aragorn’s feet, begging for mercy. A couple of minutes listening to his whining had sickened Boromir, who rose and left Elessar to make what he could of the man’s babbling, whilst he went to stand at the old man’s bedside.

Rowan was seated on a stool beside the still figure, ready with a cool cloth for his brow or a sip of water if he should stir, but the man barely moved beyond the grating sound of shallow breaths as Parsolon fought, stubbornly, for each moment of life. 

Boromir remembered the vigorous figure of his childhood. The energy, the iron will he had harnessed to his rule of the household had drawn every finer feeling, every gentle emotion, from his being. Even his attachment to the family was bound up with his own craving for position and power over others. Now he was a husk, dry as withered leaves, as though a breeze could carry him away. 

Boromir wished, for a moment, that his brother, the gentle soul who’d suffered most at Parsolon’s hands, was able to see his persecutor now, laid low – and as rapidly he rejected the idea. Faramir was the pattern of true nobility, more like Aragorn than his flawed older brother, and he would reject such a mean victory over a dying man.

Just then Parsolon’s breathing changed a little, juddered, and the girl rose from her stool, to squeeze a few drops of moisture onto withered lips. The hooded lids opened slowly. Boromir was motionless at the bedside as the rheumy eyes lighted on him. Where once they had glittered, now they were clouding, but after a few moments the man knew him. The crabbed fingers laid on his chest twitched and as though drawn, Boromir leant over the bed, smelling the sweet and sick odour of decay already upon the man. Parsolon’s lips moved and Boromir leant closer.

“A rough boy, my lord – unschooled.”

Boromir jerked upright as though struck. At that moment, Rowan went quietly from the room, passing Aragorn in the doorway, who came to stand beside him, looking at the old man, whose head had fallen a little to the side. 

Seeing Boromir wracked by guilt and anger, Aragorn wrapped his arms around him, turning him away from the silent figure. Gently, he enfolded Boromir in his arms, holding him close and still for a moment, letting Boromir’s breathing slow, before he leant back to look in his face.

Aragorn tightened his hold and Boromir looked into his King’s eyes as though he would find the balm to every hurt there. He reached out and smoothed Aragorn’s hair, cradled his cheek, with a loving hand. Aragorn leant in and kissed his lips, then his forehead, eyelids, cheekbones and finished by returning to his mouth, more insistent now, and the dying man lay forgotten in the bed.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

The road homeward seemed longer. The horses did not move so fast and Doran, who fretted now, short-tempered, was so busy chivvying along the pack-animals or scanning the horizon for possible pursuers, that Arin found it easy to slump forward a little and sink his bound hands into the horse’s mane, hiding the precious knot from sight. He had not decided exactly how he meant to escape but surely there would come a time?

The light was beginning to fade, making the shadows along the track close in on them. Then, up ahead, Arin could see the clump of willows that marked the turning into the holding and his chest tightened, so that it became hard to breathe. As the string trailed into the yard, Doran shouted for Solon to come out. Behind them, the thin man laughed derisively and told Doran they should have hidden the coin from him, that the worm would be half way to Khand by now. 

In a cluster of horses, Doran had dismounted and was reaching to lift Arin down when the maid came out from the house. She walked towards them, wiping her hands on her apron. “He’s drunk,” she said, meeting Doran’s eye. “His uncle’s death frightened him.” Arin stood, gaping at her and Doran, cursing, hustled him forward, his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“You’ll pack us food, girl,” Doran said shortly, ducking under the packhorses’ necks to tether each along the fence-rail. He had Arin on a short leash, stumbling alongside him, stiff from his hours of riding. 

Doran was securing the last of the beasts when Arin saw the girl’s face clearly. Her eyes were speaking to him, wide, urging him on to action in some way, but he did not dare…Arin’s eyes never left hers, but his fingers pulled urgently at the knot, which came undone with a jerk. 

Doran had turned back towards where the thin man was still busy with harness. He dragged Arin away from the farmhouse and the boy trotted alongside him, but all the while Arin was holding his hands close to his body, working the bindings loose.

The maid had followed a few steps behind them, as they squeezed between a couple of tethered horses, her arms folded tightly across her body. Doran turned on her angrily.

“Are you still here?”

“I think she’d like to go with you, Doran,” smirked the thin man.

The girl set her jaw and would not be ignored.

“Will you go tonight? It will be dark in an hour.”

“I want to be long gone from here before first light. Now get to your task, girl.”

The girl came on, her chin high.

“But what should I pack for you? Will you cook? Do you want meal? Oil? Solon did not believe in keeping much in store. I can find you some bacon, a small cheese perhaps, but there is no bread baked. If you would wait until the morning I could do bannocks…”

Behind him, the thin man was sniggering.

Suddenly Doran turned on her with a roar of frustration, his fist shot out to strike her and she leapt back, shrieking “Run, Arin!”

Arin had one hand free and plunged away in the only direction open to him, under the horse’s belly. He pulled on the twine leash with all his strength and it caught on the animal’s legs, sending the horse swinging towards Doran, who snarled and made a lunge for him. Then someone grabbed him from behind and a blade flashed before his eyes, making him cry out in fright, but the twine was cut and strong arms clasped him close as he was rolled on the dirt, smothered in black cloth, amidst shouts and cursing and the flaring of many torches.

Arin was shaking and fighting the dark material enveloping him, crying “Adar! Adar!” but a gentle hand drew the cloak from over his head and he looked into the King’s eyes, who said, “Hush, Arin. It’s all over…all is well,” and stroked his shorn head. Then his Adar came running from somewhere and reached for him, held him so close and Arin wrapped his arms around Boromir’s neck and sobbed into his hair, because it was too much for one small boy. 

Aragorn picked himself up from the ground, sheathed the little knife in his belt and looked at the child in his father’s arms, at the unconditional devotion to another in his lover’s eyes. He would have walked away, but Boromir called him to them and in the gathering gloom, wrapped the arm that did not hold Arin on his hip, under Aragorn’s cloak and around his waist, clasping him to them, whilst Aragorn murmured soothing words to the boy, healing his bruised soul with tenderness.

As Boromir began to walk slowly towards the house with Arin still wrapped around him, Aragorn turned to survey the scene. At the girl’s signal, soldiers had swarmed from the stables, easily overpowering the men, who did not go quietly, screaming defiance, aware of their fate, so that their foul curses hung in the air as they were taken away, until the young captain threatened to gag them. 

Rowan was sat on the lower rail of the paddock fence, watching a patrol set out with its prisoners, her former employer amongst them, a sagging figure, set to travel through the night to the nearest tower keep with cells, since the King wanted the men away from the farm and from the boy as soon as possible. Some were lifting the boxes of gold coin from the pack animals in preparation for storing them under guard for the night, whilst others would tend to the beasts.

Aragorn walked over to the girl, who scrambled to her feet at his approach. The King laid his hand to his breast and bowed his head to her in salute and Rowan dipped a curtsey and smiled, a little uncertainly. 

“There will be a house full to feed this evening,” said Aragorn, smiling. “Do you think there is food enough, or shall I send someone foraging in the village?”

“Oh, we’ll do well enough, Sire,” she answered, straightening her apron with capable hands. “Although it may not be what you are used to.”

As they entered into the kitchen, Boromir was sitting before the fire, with Arin in his lap, the pair murmuring together. Arin did not lift his head from Boromir’s shoulder, but he turned his face and smiled when he saw Rowan. Then the child wriggled in Boromir’s arms, so that his father set him down and Arin unrolled the waistband of his breeches and brought out the little knife. He held it out to the girl, saying quietly, “Thank you very much.”

Rowan hesitated, then said, “Thank you for offering it back, but you could be of help to me if you would use it on some carrots. We must feed the army tonight.”

It was as they stood together preparing the vegetables for a stout soup, full of beans and bacon and kale, that Arin, who had been quiet for the most part, asked her, “Is he really dead, the old man?”

Rowan paused a moment in her work and look Arin full in the face.

“That was a small lie Arin, but he is not long for this world. Doran stabbed him and he lies in that room,” and her head jerked towards the bedchamber. “He is cared for, but there is little that can be done.” 

The boy glanced towards the curtained doorway and said “Oh” and then he returned to his work.

They left the farmstead the next morning. Parsolon had died during the night and Aragorn left instructions for him to be buried beside his kin. They travelled slowly, not simply because the train of pack animals carrying the gold moved slowly, but also because Boromir and Aragorn wanted their son to have some time in comparative quiet with them, before returning to the undoubted excitement and hubbub of the court. 

As they rode, Arin perched before Boromir with his Adar’s arm wrapped close about him, they began to ask him of his trials, at first small things. Had they travelled this way? How had he hidden the knife in the cell? The men had said little at the farm on being shown the small, cold, room with its cot bed, but Boromir had ground his teeth when he saw the faint rust of dried blood on the broken glass at the window and then had kissed Arin’s finger better, before Aragorn looked at it and produced athelas from a little pouch to draw any remaining heat from the cut.

Gradually the child’s heart returned and he told them about some things readily enough. He was enthusiastic about Rowan’s cooking, but there were things he would not speak of yet. In particular, he was not about to tell how, the night before, as the company in the kitchen was occupied with consuming a good, hot meal washed down with quantities of strong ale, he had slipped unseen behind the curtain and up to the bed in which Parsolon lay. 

The man’s breath was laboured, his eyes stared unseeing and at his side, one knarled hand clenched and unclenched as though he struggled with pain. Arin saw the cup of water for him, set on a stool, and picking it up, he reached over and let a few drops fall onto the dry lips. The child almost dropped the cup in fright when the old man turned his head and fixed cloudy eyes on his face. For a moment, Arin thought he might be blind, but the eyes did not leave his face and the faint whisper came, “Boy, I have seen her – the dark woman – she walks with him still.” Arin had backed away from the bed then, laid the cup back on the stool, turned and fled, and in the still of the night Parsolon’s struggle had ended.

In the days and weeks that followed Elessar oversaw the drawing out of the threads that had become so tangled. Arwen had swept Arin into her arms on seeing him again; her eyes bright with unshed tears, she fussed over him and knitted him colourful caps to wear against the cold. Eldarion too was glad to have his playmate back. It was clear to Arin that the child had only the faintest remembrance of what had occurred and for that he was glad. However, the King and Queen considered that Arin deserved some reward for having been so quick-thinking and brave in seeking to protect the little prince and Elessar proposed to give him the foal, Astred. 

The mare had welcomed the boy back to her side with a gentle nudge to his chest, but Arin had only stroked the foal absently and told Elessar that he was most grateful, but he did not want the foal. When they asked why, he simply shrugged. 

Boromir, who had been sure he would have welcomed the gift, worried about his son’s subdued mood, but Aragorn soothed him and said that Arin undoubtedly still felt uncertain about much that had happened. They must give him time to find his feet again. The foal would not be a made horse for another five years, and Aragorn would keep it in trust for the boy until he was older and the hurts were not so raw. 

Rullo had greeted Arin back with ecstatic barking, running around him in circles and covering his newly clean shirt with slobber. Aragorn and Boromir had then spent a lively afternoon introducing Rullo to the stable cats, enforcing manners on both sides, so that Arin would never have to leave his pet behind again.

One day, Boromir had welcomed a justice and a scribe to the house and had sat, with Arin beside him, listening as the judge questioned Arin about what had happened to him. The man was patient and his questions were worded clearly. He also made sure that Arin understood what he was being asked, that he must tell the truth as he remembered it, but that if he did not remember clearly or did not know, he should say so and that was good too, since it helped them to understand the limits of the thing. At times the boy’s voice had been so soft that they had to strain to hear him, but Arin did try to answer every question fully, even when sometimes it was hard and once or twice he was close to tears remembering Meriel and some of the things that he had seen or heard.

Arin had returned to school, where his masters reported him abnormally compliant and diligent, but Boromir was sure that mood would not last for too long. His friends had wondered whether he would have to go to speak at the trial, a thought that privately alarmed the boy, but the King had come himself to explain to Arin what would happen in his absence and he had returned later the same day to report the outcome. There had been little doubt of the verdict. Both Doran and the thin man, Yorl, were condemned for their killings of Meriel and Parsolon, whilst the wretched Solon was banished. Elessar told Arin that his testimony, how he had heard Solon plead with his uncle to let him go, and that of the maid, Rowan, had told in the man’s favour and on reflection, Arin was glad of it. 

It was the King’s Steward himself who went to oversee the destruction of the farmhouse and its holding. The dressed stone had been offered free to any who wanted it and the remaining timber and contents had been burnt. At Elessar’s express command they had then cleared the ground and salt sand from the shore had been carted up and spread across the place where the house, the stables, the paddocks and outbuildings had once stood. Finally, a pillar had been raised directing those who would know what had happened in this place to look to the wrath of the King.

On a sunny morning, some weeks later Rowan arrived in the city, carrying her small bundle of possessions. All the livestock on the farm had been sold and the coin, a handsome sum, had been lodged with the palace treasury for her use in the future. Boromir had asked her what she wished for. The girl had thought for some minutes and then replied that she would like to have a small inn some day, somewhere with a good kitchen garden. 

And for now, asked Aragorn? For now, she wondered whether there might be an opening in the palace kitchens? Her cooking would do for such as Solon, she said, but she knew she had much to learn. At the palace she could learn to cook for many and also master the finer dishes that might tempt the nobility one day to visit a small, quiet inn. They had thoroughly approved her plan. Boromir had privately added to the sum laid away for her and despite her connection with the past, Arin was only too pleased welcome her to Minas Tirith. 

He had been waiting for her to arrive, travelling in with a party of soldiers returning from a routine patrol, and was standing in the stable yard as a sergeant led his horse in under the arch, Rowan perched straight-backed on the crupper. The stable lad who’d so impressed Aragorn and Boromir with his intelligence and sharp eyes was standing by the well. He stepped forward to lift the girl down and in years to come, Arin would remember with pleasure seeing the first time Sarn had set eyes on Rowan, seeing her claim his heart with a simple look and in return give back her own, laid in her open hand. 

This he remembered with joy, but for longer than he would admit, even to himself, Arin’s most abiding memories of those days were of the old man, who came from his grandfather’s time, who would teach him through lies and pain, who spoke as though he hovered between worlds…and who saw the dead walk.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been edited since its first posting at alex-quine.livejournal.com. The Cold Pressing AU is a maze of tales, long and short, and some of them, usually the short pieces, can be seen as scenes that occur in the background of the longer stories, so I may not always post them in an order that conforms to a rigid timeline. Eldarion in this tale is slightly younger than the child who appears in 'The Yule Dragon'.


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